The Deceived
by Uroboros75
Summary: The Witnesses have their hands full when things don't quite go as planned. Part II of the Pulling the Strings series.
1. Prologue: I Must Be Dreaming

_A/N: Welcome to the second installment in the Pulling the Strings series!_

_If you have not already, I would heavily suggest you go and read Part I: The Arrival before reading this one, as it is the continuation. Also, for those who are re-reading, then you'll be glad to know that this is a revised edition, where typos and errors have been corrected, passages trimmed and expanded as needed to improve flow, and minor plot gaps and inconsistencies corrected. The Arrival has also received this treatment, so feel free to go check that out too, if you like.  
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_Whatever the case is, now is the perfect time to get yourself up to speed on the series in preparation for the soon-to-be complete PTS III. So dive in, folks! And as always, feedback is appreciated!  
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_Enjoy! :)  
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><p><span>Prologue: I Must Be Dreaming<span>

It had been ten minutes by his count.

The sole light affixed to the ceiling illuminated the metallic table in the center of the otherwise dark room. Apart from the table he was cuffed to and the two accompanying chairs – one of which he occupied – the chamber was entirely empty. He twirled his thumbs, altering the direction of rotation at random, bidding his time. Prison life was interesting so far, he found. The meals, though bland, were adequate for his tastes, and he had great fun with the prison guards, even if they did not seem to share his refined sense of humour.

But then again, he had only been there for a mere sixteen days. The majority of his time was spent locked away in isolation to wither in a small, decrepit cell. And while he was able to find ways to alleviate the boredom, it was only ever a temporary victory, and he found himself staring at the walls more than anything else. It began to settle in that his sentence of twenty-five years would be a long one at that rate.

The only things that helped him cope with the thought were the few material indulgences he was allowed, and the knowledge that he would soon break free of that God-forsaken hole.

So he was pleasantly surprised when the warden paid a visit to his cell just over fifteen minutes ago.

"Good news, Mister Jones," announced Johan Lennox in his thick German tongue. "You have a visitor."

And so it was that fifteen minutes later, he was sitting in a visitor's cell, wrists tethered to the table with plastic cufflinks, whistling a jolly little tune that he had the habit of whistling. He wondered if his visitor was his appointed lawyer, Salman Kohl, who had come to delve deeper into legal issues Jones had no use for. But he quickly discarded the notion; his meetings with Kohl were preordained, and the legal representative wasn't set to return until the end of the week. With surmounting curiosity, he waited, wondering who was so eager to meet him that they would disrupt his schedule and turn his ordered little world upside down.

He did not have to wait much longer.

The door opened with a sudden thunderous creak, and there entered a woman Jones had never seen before. She appeared to be in her mid-forties, dressed sleek yet conservative, with a neat white blouse and knee-length skirt. Her chestnut hair fell in voluminous locks around her shoulders, which bounced slightly as she made her way with elegant strides to the chair opposite of Jones.

"_Sieben minuten_," warned the guard.

The woman nodded, and the door was closed.

"Hello, David," she said, pulling out the chair.

"Well, hello to you as well, Barbara!" replied Jones enthusiastically.

"Esther Dei, actually," corrected the woman.

Smiling, Esther took her seat, placing the briefcase she carried beside her seat. She looked at him with bright emerald eyes, her piercing gaze contrasting with her matronly, warm demeanour. Her blouse was opened a few buttons, revealing a pendant with a grapefruit-coloured gem embedded within.

"Oh yes, _Esther_!" said Jones. "Please forgive me, my dear. How could I ever forget such a lovely face?"

"We've met before?" humoured Esther as she removed her coat.

"Of course we have," replied Jones. "You're that one person I encountered that one time."

Esther's smile widened, accentuating the soft wrinkles around her eyes. It might have just been the lighting, but Jones found her to be a rather stunning woman. He would have pondered her loveliness in a matter not at all chivalrous if her presence didn't have this weight to it that kept him on edge.

"I've missed you, you know," said Jones. "It can get lonely in here, sometimes. You should come visit me more often."

"I'll be sure to do that when I get the chance."

A moment passed before Jones spoke.

"So, tell me, _Esther_. What brings you here on this fine day?"

"I've come to strike a bargain."

Esther proceeded to place the briefcase on the table, removing a single document from within before sliding it across the metallic table's surface. It appeared to be an aged parchment of sorts, upon which was depicted a cylindrical object; arcane glyphs ran down its length. Jones leaned forward, analysing the page at first with feigned disinterest, then with alarm.

"Do you recognize this?" began Esther.

"Where did you get this?" asked Jones, suspicious.

"Answer the question, David," she prodded gently.

"Yes," began Jones with reluctance, "I've seen this before. It's an old relic that I came across at one point in my... _pre-prison_ career."

He continued to stare at the withered page before him, recalling when the time when he first stumbled upon it. Jones and his men acquired the artefact from an old, weathered Nazi bunker back in 1995, when he was still captain of Zeta Cell. It was, for all intents and purposes, your ordinary priceless artefact, save for the fact that it was constantly vibrating. His men managed to undo its top cap; the unleashed vibrations were so strong that they knocked down half the crew, and it took almost all of them to replace the cylinder's lid. Jones smirked at the memory before continuing.

"But what _I_ would like to know is why you are so interested in this peculiar object."

"Oh, that doesn't really matter," replied Esther. "What matters is that _you_ know where it is, and that _I_ want to find it."

Jones eyes narrowed. The cylinder was the third such artefact ZFT had found at that point, and they have found many more since then. The captains all agreed to keep them stashed away in various caches across the world, believing that they might prove to be useful someday. Jones knew where most, if not all, of the relics were hidden. But even though his loyalty to ZFT had been severed long ago, he wasn't too keen on making Esther Dei privy to all his secrets.

"Forgive my nosiness, Miz Dei," he said, "but I fail to see how such a trinket could possibly be of any interest to you. It would be more at home behind the glass panes of a museum exhibit than in your soft, delicate hands."

"This is the _Harmonic Stabilizer_," explained Esther, pointing to the parchment. "You are no doubt aware of its unique properties, and it is something of great value to me, which is why I seek to obtain it."

Jones sat silent, questions whizzing through his mind. For what purposes did she require the artefact? How did she figure out its connection to him? And how exactly did she even manage to obtain an audience with him in the first place? Caution, he decided, would be crucial from that point forward.

"And _why_ should I reveal the location of this Harmonic Stabilizer to you?" he asked.

"Oh, don't worry, dear," assured Esther. "I wouldn't ask such a thing of you if I wasn't prepared to give you something in return."

After replacing the parchment in her briefcase, she removed a folder from her purse, which came to rest before her.

"I have something here which I'm certain will be of great interest to you," said Esther as she removed a specific file from the folder and pushing it forward.

Jones looked down for several moments, taking in what he saw, and raised his eyebrows in disbelief.

"Think about it, David," said Esther. "This would give you a significant advantage in the Silent War. You would be the envy of the other captains. Not to mention that this is the perfect way to bring Doctor Bell down a notch or two."

He broke free of his engrossment and looked back up; Esther continued to wear her warm smile, to stare at him with those damnable all-knowing eyes. He was taken aback at how much she seemed to know, about him, his organization, but most of all, of the ongoing war against the Other Side.

"...How do you know all this?" asked Jones warily.

"I know many things about you, David."

A chill ran down his spine.

"You have information on something that I want," she continued, "and I have information on something that you want. So, what do you say? You give me the location of the Harmonic Stabilizer, and in return, I'll give you the rest of the information on your...significant advantage."

Jones remained silent, weighing the prospects of the offer as Dei held up the folder, teasing the man with the promise of its tantalizing contents. After an instance of consideration, he spoke.

"Well, Miz Dei, you sure know how to drive a hard bargain. But before I reveal the location of the artefact, I wish to ask you something. How can I be sure of the authenticity of these documents? For all I know, you could just be playing me like some incarcerated fool."

Esther was silent for a moment, seeming to consider her next words. She appeared genuinely stumped, causing Jones to smirk at her apparent naivety and lack of experience. Jones brought his eyes back to the file, then tossing it back across the table, resigning in disappointment at the waste of what could have been the greatest of opportunities.

"Well, Miz Dei, I suppose that this brings our first date to a close," announced Jones. "I would love nothing more than to kiss you goodnight, but as you can see, I am cuffed to–"

"Do you remember those London summers at the bakery?" interrupted Dei out of the blue, staring into the distance. "You would help mum roll the dough to make loaves of bread. And you would be covered in flour, and your little six year old arms would be sore by the end of it, but that didn't matter; you were just happy to help mummy out. And she would whistle this lovely little tune. In fact, it was the same tune you were whistling when I came into this room. Isn't that right, David Robert Jones?"

His mouth hung open, prepared to respond, though no words escaped his lips as the woman recounted his intimate memories with disturbing accuracy, things that only he would know – should know.

"Who exactly _are_ you?" Jones managed to say through his stupefaction.

And she peered deep into his eyes, her face unchanging, and her voice echoed in his head, filling every crevice of his mind.

_There are forces at work here far beyond your understanding, young one. It would be in your best interest not to hinder them. _

Jones' face remained frozen while he processed the chain of events that had just occurred. He had seen many strange things in his heyday, so much so that he was nearly desensitized to all that was extraordinary and bizarre in the world. This occurrence, however, would rank near the top of his list. But even with all her novel parlour tricks, he still held his reservations about this strange woman. And yet, the more he thought about it, the more he realized, much to his chagrin, that documents she possessed were much too valuable to risk losing.

"The artefact can be located in safety deposit box 8014 at the Berenberg Bank in Hamburg," started Jones suddenly. "In order to access it, you will need the key to the safe, which is currently in possession of my representative, Mister Salman Kohl. I will arrange to have him accompany you when you go to retrieve the artefact."

Esther wrote down everything he said on a small notepad. Satisfied, she handed the rest of the folder to Jones, who devoured its contents with eager eyes. As she replaced her things in her purse, Jones suddenly looked up from his documents with a puzzled expression, as though struck by a sudden realization. He then proceeded to pinch his forearm, wincing at the self-inflicted pain.

"What are you doing, dear?" asked Esther, confused.

"As you can clearly see," he stated matter-of-factly, "I'm pinching myself."

"Now why would you do that?" she asked.

"Because it just now occurred to me that I might be dreaming."

"Would you like to know a little secret, David?"

She leaned forward, with an almost childlike glimmer in her eye.

"You are," she hushed.

Before Jones could question her about the meaning of her cryptic statement, a buzzing noise resounded. The guard opened the door, signalling the end of the meeting.

"Pleasure doing business with you, David," said Esther as she rose from her chair.

With that, Esther Dei left the room, and the guard shut the door behind her, leaving Jones to himself. He redirected his attention to the documents on the table, reading once more the note that Dei attached to the photograph of a young woman:

_David,_

_The woman you see in this picture is William Bell's Gatekeeper._

_Her name is Olivia Dunham. She has yet to be activated. _

_What you do from this point forward with the information contained in this folder is none of my concern. _

_However, I'm sure you'll be able to put it to good use._

_Love and Light,_

_Esther Dei._

A smile drew itself on the face of David Robert Jones. A significant advantage indeed, he thought to himself.

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><p>PULLING THE STRINGS<p>

Part II: The Deceived

A Fringe fanfiction series by Uroboros75


	2. Chapter 1: Dawning Sun

Chapter 1: Dawning Sun

_**"Activate Summons Protocol**_  
><em><strong>Location Sector Alpha-2 [42.375-70.983/03.57]**_  
><em><strong>Time at 6:28:36 AM Local <strong>_  
><em><strong>[Priority code 1618]"<strong>_

A sliver of crimson light tinged the horizon as September longed Winthrop's shoreline, where a light, salted breeze came to greet him from the twilight of the nascent morning. He had always enjoyed the calm period of transition between night and day, a brief encounter of worlds where time seemed to come to a standstill. He would have preferred to remain at the bench where he was seated earlier to savour it further, but the Summoning Protocol had been issued, and he had no choice but to respond, making haste for the rendezvous point displayed on the screen of his MultiCell.

The Arbiters issued the Summoning Protocol when they required an audience with one of their Division's agents, usually to hand out specific tasks or to inform them of significant developments. It was never anything too demanding, but in light of recent events, September braced himself for the worst. As he made his way to his clandestine meeting with December, his mind went back to that night in Kings Cemetery, the night he and October encountered someone who was as much akin to a Witness as he was radically different. It was as though he had been looking at a distorted reflection of his own self, and he found the very concept of such an entity unsettling.

He continued to think of that mysterious figure, of Thomas Moroe, of his meeting with Walter Bishop, of October's dealings with John Mosley, of Robert Bishop's grave, of little Cassidy and her mother. He tried to make sense of this pattern, to see where every piece stood in relation to the other, but it came to no avail. The Witnesses were supposed to know what the future held – they did have an intimate understanding of its probabilistic nature, after all – but with the introduction of so many things that eluded his grasp, September was starting to ponder the fallibility of his perception. He desired answers now more than anything, and though it opposed the passivity he had inevitably cultured over the years due to the impartial, detached nature of his work, he resolved himself to seek them out.

Perhaps December would be of some assistance, he thought.

At road's bend, he branched off, descending a staircase that led to a walkway bordering the murky waters below. In the distance, he spotted a suited man holding a briefcase. He was staring out at the ocean, watching the sun slowly emerge from the depths of its celestial burrow. September proceeded to place himself near the Arbiter's side; the latter promptly turned to address his guest.

"Greetings," said December. "I trust that you are well."

"I am," replied September.

The two admired the ocean for some time before December spoke.

"The reason I have summoned you here concerns your imminent departure for Sector Beta-2."

September looked over to his superior, who maintained his gaze seawards. Olivia Dunham was set to depart for Sector Beta to meet with David Robert Jones, and due to the Subjects Protocol, he was bound to oversee her activities during her stay there. But what relevance his trip to Frankfurt could possibly have eluded him.

"I require that you to deliver something to January," continued December.

"What is it?" asked September.

"It is a holographic conference module that the Overseer has recently created," the Arbiter explained. "With it, we will be able to hold joint Council meetings with the Aube Division from within the Crépuscule Council Chamber."

"Joint Council meetings?"

"Yes," said December, noting his agent's concern.

The Arbiter shifted his glance back at the swaying sea.

"The moment of Collision draws nearer every second," he began. "The humans are causing the Veil to decay at such a rapid rate that they have managed to artificially expedite the original predicted date of the Collision by a few years. The process is increasing at an almost exponential rate now, and it will all culminate in their ongoing Silent War."

He swivelled his head towards September, who reciprocated the motion.

"In times to come, our efforts will need to increase greatly if we are to counteract the War's facilitation of the Collision. Because of this, the Overseer has decided that it would be useful if all members of the League of the Witnesses were able to communicate with each other simultaneously in order to better mobilize our tactics."

September remained silent, processing December's words. All around him he could sense the weight of the impending Collision upon his shoulders, see its figure loom at the edges of his perception, hear the Veil's agonized wails as it slowly tore apart at the seams by mankind's quest for supremacy over nature. The Witnesses have been preparing for the onset of the Collision for thousands of years; and yet, it seemed like it was only yesterday when he watched from afar shepherds herding their flock, or nomadic tribes forging across the plains, guided by the whims of the wind. It was a simpler time back then, a time where man's means were greatly outpaced by their dreams and aspirations.

But those means have now almost caught up to them. There would eventually be no obstacles in their path; all possibilities will be within their reach. Beyond the point of Collision, however, both the fate of the humans and the greater whole of Existence were uncertain. Only a swirling nebula of vague possibilities existed, and no Witness, not even the Overseer, whose perception vastly surpassed that of every living thing, was able to accurately predict what would happen thereafter.

And the introduction of as rigorous a measure as communication modules linking the Council Chambers together came as a not so subtle reminder of the gravity of the situation. September had been working towards the prevention of the Collision for so long that it had somewhat lost its impact over time; that it was now just around the corner gave the Witness a small reality check that put things back into worrisome perspective.

September turned to the Arbiter.

"For what purpose does January require the device?" he asked.

"January and I ran some tests a few days ago," explained December. "Unfortunately, we have determined that the Crépuscule module is defective. We must therefore send it back to Für Immer so that the Overseer may repair it. Since you are leaving for Sector Beta shortly, I thought it would be more efficient to have you transport it there yourself and give it to January directly rather than having to process it through the Courier Network."

September was relieved. He was expecting a much more serious assignment, and was pleased that it was something relatively minor in comparison to the various scenarios he simulated on his way to the rendezvous point. December stretched out his arm, and September accepted the briefcase containing the module.

"I have already informed January of your coming," said December, relinquishing the case. "Contact him after you have overseen Olivia Dunham's arrival in Frankfurt, and he will arrange a meeting with you."

"Do you think we will have to use these modules often?" inquired September.

"I cannot say," replied December. "I would think that if we can continue to carry out our duties with the same perseverance throughout the Silent War, then we may never have to resort to its use. But in the event that we must, let us hope that it is not a sign of our faltering vigilance."

September's brows tensed slightly as he considered the Arbiter's words of warning. He too found himself sharing that same hope, but only because he was concerned about what that hope represented. What _would _happen if they were to fail? Would the Witnesses survive the Collision? And if they did, what would be their purpose from then on? He decided to swiftly end the train of thought, not wanting to pursue it any further.

He instead turned his thoughts to the questions he had for December; yet September could not bring himself to speak, debating with himself whether he should even go ahead as he had originally intended.

"I've reviewed your mission report for the Beacon assignment," said the Arbiter, seeming to catch on to September's hesitation.

"I've been meaning to speak to you about this, actually," began September. "Do you know anything about the individual October and I spotted at Kings Cemetery?"

"Unfortunately, I do not," said December. "It is a troubling matter, to be sure. That there not only exists an individual similar to the Witnesses that has not been accounted for, but that he is also interested in the Beacon, is a disturbing thought indeed."

"Have you contacted the Overseer about this?" asked the Witness.

"I was going to send out the message later today. The Overseer has just left on one of his excursions, so I can no longer contact him. He departed approximately two hours ago, and has informed us Arbiters to expect his return to Für Immer a few months from now. "

And now September's chance for answers was completely shattered. The Overseer periodically took lengthy trips to Potential States, and he always returned with new ideas and strategies that greatly benefited the Witnesses, but September wished that the head of their organization would have chosen a less inopportune time to depart.

"I have also spoken to January of the matter," continued December, "and as you have no doubt suspected, he is as unknowing as I am."

Another possible source of answers was crossed off. An unwelcome sense of doubt gripped September. The Overseer was the only individual who might have known something, and he would not be returning for quite some time. He could not sense the mystery man in his perception of the future, nor perceive any possibilities in which he was manifest. Until the Overseer returned, he hoped that he would not have the misfortune of encountering him again.

Having reached a dead end, September continued a new line of questioning.

"And what of the man named Thomas Moroe?" he asked.

"You'll be glad to know that we have managed to find some information on this man," announced December.

September eyes widened, having expected nothing at all.

"I've tasked the Proxies to uncover what they could," recounted the Arbiter, "and they have found some files and records of relevance to him. However, not only does he go by this name in both Sectors, but all records pertaining to this individual have been forged. Therefore, any information we do find – his age, his function, any registered places of residence – are rendered suspect by default."

"What are we to do with him?" asked September.

"I have assigned Moroe as a High Priority Target for the time being, so the Proxies will alert us if there are any new developments. By your description, he seems to be less of a concern than the man from the cemetery, but even so, we should not underestimate him or those he may be working with."

September reset his sights to the horizon. Even though the bigger picture had only partially unveiled its face, his inquiries have yielded better results than he had projected. But for now, it appeared that the key to these mysteries would only manifest later on. And yet, in a way, he wasn't completely sure that he truly even _wanted _to know, concerned that the true state of things would reveal themselves more dire than he could have ever predicted.

"Now is not the time to fret over these issues," reminded December. "We will deal with them when the time comes, as we have always done. I suggest that you instead direct your attention to the task at hand. In the meantime, I will be sure to forward this matter to the Overseer once he returns from his travels."

December checked his pocket watch.

"You should leave now if you are going to arrive at Frankfurt International before she does," he added.

"Understood."

December turned, leaving September unobserved. He felt a sudden change in ambient space-time, and when he turned around, September was nowhere in sight, having departed to Europe via the Roads Less Traveled By. The Arbiter of the Crépuscule Division then left the walkway to tend to his own affairs, but not before taking one last glance at the dawning sun as it emerged from the scarlet skyline beyond.


	3. Chapter 2: Tactical Analysis

Chapter 2: Tactical Analysis

They could be anyone.

Daniel Thompson walked along the sidewalk, lugging his backpack and clinging to his coat in an effort to ward off the cold of the damp autumn's day. His breath spiralled off in vaporous billows, and his cheeks blushed slightly from the chill. And others did the same, making their way along the wet streets of Somerville.

But it wasn't just the cold that caused him to fold back onto himself.

His recent escapade in the heart of a Shapeshifter base of operations with Spock had been a rather jarring experience. That they actually escaped with their lives to begin with was hard enough to come to terms with. He was torn trying to decide whether to attribute his survival to some purveying cosmic force or sheer causal happenstance, considering the destructive potency of the bomb that completely decimated the subterranean outpost. That was but four days ago, and he hadn't slept too well for any of the nights that followed.

So he clung to his coat, eyeing passersby with wariness. They could be anyone of these people, he thought; strangers that he would never again encounter were cast as hostile foes, predators bent on dominating the world from the inside out. He wondered how vast the First Wave truly was, whether they were found not only in low places, but in high ones as well, every echelon of society compromised without so much as a blink of an eye on humanity's behalf.

That he could be in over his head came as a grim realization to him, a grimness that became even more real when he realized that he definitely _was_ in over his head. The menace of the First Wave towered over him, threatening to topple over and crush him under its might, and a part of him wished that he could return to a life of blissful ignorance. And why not? It would certainly be a more luxurious life compared to one where he struggled daily with an overwhelming burden. And all he would have to do was simply push all notions of Shapeshifter infiltrations and government conspiracies and paranormal phenomena aside, to ignore all these troublesome things until they troubled him no more.

But that was precisely the problem.

He couldn't, no matter how hard he tried, ignore the Truth, not when it was dangling right before his eyes. It would not be easy from that point onward, he knew. He worked to muster the resolve that would be required of him if he was to travel the difficult road ahead, to play his part in the struggle for mankind's survival, however big or small a part it may be.

One step at a time.

Dan stopped at the corner of Hammond and Long, checking the note Spock gave him once more. He had instructed Dan to meet him at his workplace – a store whose name and nature he had neglected to mention – so that they could return to Spock's apartment after his shift and review the Intel they retrieved from the outpost. Dan's destination was found in Somerville, thankfully, so he was able to simply walk to his destination.

He continued his trek further into the depths of the city, until at last finding the street which he sought. Dan slowed his pace, scanning back and forth between the buildings, and halted midway down the road, reading the panel that arched over the store across the street with a raised eyebrow.

_Larsen Comics._

Dan glanced back at the note, verifying that the information was correct; spotting the Oldsmobile parked nearby erased all doubt. He had a feeling that Spock worked in an untraditional venue, but he wasn't quite expecting to see such a place so fitting of his character. Smirking at the irony of the situation, he crossed the street and entered the store.

A bell jingled as the door swung open. Dan paced forward, taking in his surroundings. Though visibly aged, the store held a welcoming atmosphere. Comic books were arranged in a variety of shelves, trays and bins, scattered across the store in consistent fashion. Posters, more shelves, and merchandise occupied the majority of wall space. He noticed a large opening in the back wall, leading to another room where more wares were to be found.

He then directed himself to the unattended counter, where a score of treasures were displayed on the other side of its plastic panes. New additions were plastered on the wall, with only a few t-shirts and other memorabilia breaking the monotony of cover art. With no one present, Dan tapped the nearby service bell. Voices rang from the depths of the store, and moments later, out came Emmanuel Grayson, sporting a Green Lantern tee beneath an unbuttoned brown plaid shirt. His eyes were narrowed in suspicion; upon seeing Dan, however, he put himself at ease, and welcomed him with a warm smile.

"Greetings," he welcomed, fist-bumping his visitor. "Glad you could make it. I hope you didn't have too much trouble finding this place."

"Not at all, Spock," said Dan.

Spock immediately urged him silent.

"Dude! What do you think you're doing?" he reproached, wide-eyed. "You can't just go around saying my _true name_ out loud like that out in the open! Who knows what sinister forces could be listening in on our conversation at this very moment? By day, I would insist that you refer to me by my mundane name."

He pointed to his name tag, upon which the diminutive was sown.

"Fair enough..._Manny_," conceded Dan. "Uh, speaking of sinister forces, are we all set to go?"

"Affirmative," said Spock.

Spock gave a paranoid glance back to the doorway from whence he came before continuing, leaning over the counter.

"Did you bring the _Intel?_" he hushed.

"It's right in here, S– _Manny_," replied Dan, pointing to his backpack with a cock of the head.

"Excellent," approved Spock, rubbing his hands. "I'm look forward to exchange our findings. I just need to go wrap up out back. Wait right there, I'll be right back."

With surprising speed, the grey-bearded man scurried back into the dungeons of the Larsen Comics building, leaving Dan to himself. A few minutes later, he returned, wearing a grey beret and carrying a backpack of his own, slung over his right shoulder.

"To the Oldsmobile!" he declared, pointing skywards.

Dan followed his companion outside to the car, which was parked across the street. After a few awkward and clumsy gestures, Spock found the correct key, got inside the car, and unlocked Dan's door. Once everything was in place, they sped off, blending into the uniformity of Boston traffic.

"So," started Dan. "A comic book store, huh? How long have you been working there?"

"Since about '97, if my memory serves me well," replied Spock.

"That's quite a long time," noted Dan, surprised.

"Yeah, I guess," acknowledged Spock. "It ain't too bad, though, all things considered. The fellas and I work a tight ship. And Mister Larsen is the nicest guy you'll ever meet."

Dan nodded pensively. He had never worked anywhere for more than a few years himself. He had been working at the Quickway convenience store for almost a year and a half now, and was a deli shop boy for two years before that. And he had no choice, either, with nothing but a GED; a college dropout, he was doomed to wander from post to post in the marketplace, making just enough money to lead a relatively comfortable lifestyle.

"Why there, though?" asked Dan.

"It wasn't too far from where my mother and I lived," said Spock. "She was the one who introduced me to Mister Larsen, as it happens."

"Cool," said Dan. "Your mom sounds like a classy gal."

"Oh yeah, she's fantastic!" said Spock. "She bakes the best chocolate chip cookies in all of Boston!"

"Is that right? Well, perhaps we should pay her a visit one day so that she can make us a batch."

"We can't," said Spock, solemn.

"What do you mean?" asked Dan.

"She...she's been captured by renegade Romulans."

Spock seemed distant and aloof all of a sudden, staring ahead with an inexpressive face as he drove.

"Jesus Christ, Spock, will you give that stuff a break –"

"They took her away from me!" interrupted Spock, staring at Dan with crazed eyes. "She's still out there somewhere, Crow! I _know_ it!"

"Watch the road!" yelled Dan, gripping the driver's shoulder.

Spock snapped out of his apparent trance and braked hard to prevent crashing into the car in front of them, causing them to lurch forward in their straps with the sound of squealing tires.

"What the hell, man?" cried Dan. "What's the matter with you?"

"What?" asked Spock. "What are you talking about?"

Spock seemed genuinely unaware of his previous state, blinking his eyes as though he had just awoken from a strange dream.

"...Never mind," said Dan.

Spock shrugged, eyeing the traffic lights. When it turned green, they sped off; as they crossed the intersection, Dan thought he could hear Spock mumbling to himself.

"...I-I am Spock, son of Sarek of the planet Vulcan, Starfleet officer and sworn protector of the United Federation of Planets..."

But soon enough, all trace of Spock's apparent lunacy disappeared, and Dan dropped the matter entirely, having made a commitment to accept his partner's many quirks; not to mention lacking the desire to delve into whatever psychological issues he might – and probably did – have.

The duo remained silent for the remainder of the drive to Malden, parking near the Summerside Apartments complex once they arrived. Spock opened the front door of the ground-level apartment. Dan chucked his backpack on the living room couch while the other meticulously locked the column of keyholes that secured his door. Then, at his host's behest, Dan assisted in shutting the windows and their curtains. When all the precautions were taken, Spock took out a pack of colas, which he placed on the table in front of the couch where Dan had made himself comfortable.

"I'll be right back," he said before being whisked away by the urge to relieve himself.

Dan took the opportunity to take out the First Wave Intel, spreading the files out before him on the coffee table. As he waited for Spock to return, he glanced around, taking stock of all the collectibles adoring the shelves, of the posters and baubles that decorated the rooms of the lofty place. It must have cost a pretty penny, he thought. He began to wonder how exactly Spock was able to afford all of his possessions – and the apartment itself, which was rather nice – considering his lowly job as a comic shop clerk.

At that moment, Spock returned, armed with a thick folder. After catapulting himself onto the chair's cushion, he propped himself forward, eyeing the Intel Dan had scattered on the table.

"Hey, Spock?" asked Dan. "Where did you get the money to buy all this stuff?"

When Spock didn't answer, Dan flinched slightly.

"Oh, never mind," said an apologetic Dan. "It's none of my business anyway."

"What?" asked Spock, looking up from the table. "Oh, that's alright, Crow, I don't mind. If you truly must know, in addition to my occupation, I make a lot of money on the side from the ad revenue I generate through Galaxy Truth. "

"Oh," said Dan, nodding. "That's cool."

Spock popped open a can of cola.

"So," he began, "what do you make of the Intel so far?"

"Not much, unfortunately," admitted Dan. "These things go way over my head, and I can't make heads or tails of most of it."

"Yeah, I've had poor luck as well," said Spock. "I've tried researching some elements of interest, but I've yet to find anything conclusive. Maybe we should run them down one by one, see what we can find with our combined mental powers."

Dan nodded in agreement, and Spock lifted the string-tied folder to lay his own documents on the wooden surface before them.

"Let's see..." said Dan. "First, we have files on a handful of random, unconnected individuals: Tobias Drake, Edward Salzburg, Lewis Arcand. All of them are fairly important people; Drake is the head of a large law firm out in Allston, and Arcand here happens to be on the Boston City Council.

"Looks like you found a Shapeshifter fashion catalog," noted Spock.

"I wouldn't doubt it," agreed Dan. "And over _here_, we have _Projected Synchronizations_. It's basically a list of various dates, times, and places spanning the last two months, all categorized in columns labelled _Insertion_ and _Extraction_."

"Hold on a sec," said Spock. "If I recall correctly, I have a map here that details Insertion and Extraction points."

He flipped the map around so that Dan could see it. Various locations were circled with black marker, a large number of which Dan recognized. Verifying his own sheets, he found that the locations on the map corresponded to the ones on the Synchronization list.

"Check this out," said Dan, pointing out the connection. "I guess that these are places where they travel back and forth from wherever the hell it is these guys come from."

"Interesting," mused Spock, stroking his goatee. "These specific time tables would suggest that these openings are very narrow. Perhaps they denote periodic, um... _windows_ in the Earth's magnetic field."

"Why would they need to know that?" asked Dan.

"Well, given the bio-mechanical nature of the Shapeshifters, their circuitry might be sensitive to strong magnetic fields. I posit that the Romulans must have calculated specific openings in said field so that they can beam them back and forth from the armada currently hidden over on the dark side of the Moon."

Dan opened his mouth, poised to shoot down the possibility, but, remembering the incident in the car, held his tongue instead.

"So we've managed to establish where they like to hang out," assessed Spock. "What else?"

"Take a look at these two bad boys," said Dan, smirking.

Dan took a pair of documents and placed them in the middle of their workspace; one was titled PROJECT HARVESTER, while the other's heading was PROJECT TITAN. Spock took the Harvester file, flipping through it with great interest.

"Whoa, neat!" exclaimed Spock.

"I can't make sense of most of it," started Dan, "but there are some keywords that reoccur throughout the document, like talk about gathering resources and something called _The Blight._ And in Project Titan, we have _polarity shifts_ and _incubation periods_. There's also mention of someone called _The Secretary_ in both of them. I have no clue who that might be, though."

Spock's eyes lit up in recollection at the mention of the name.

"Funny you should mention him," he said.

He dropped a file titled PROJECT HYBRID beside the currently unused Titan pile. Dan immediately set out to analyze Spock's documents.

"The Secretary shows up a lot in that one too," explained Spock, replacing the Harvester file on the table. "He sounds like a pretty important fellow. Whatever the case may be, I think these project files are our best asset against these guys."

Dan nodded absent-mindedly, still absorbed in the Hybrid file. Once he had scanned the document from cover to cover – which, to his dismay, was as undecipherable as the others – he placed it beside the Harvester and Titan files. He then yawned aloud before rubbing his weary eyes.

"Rough night?" noted Spock.

"Yeah," said Dan. "I haven't gotten much sleep these past few days."

"I hear you, man. You know, I've had my fair share of sleepless nights, just sitting there, staring at the ceiling, wondering what could be out there. When you've been in this business as long as I have, you tell yourself that you've gotten used to it, but you never really do. Still, we can't ever afford to back down. _Persist or perish_, as I like to say."

Dan's brows burrowed in thought at his partner's words. Being a legitimate Truth-Seeker was harder than he thought. He imagined that it might eventually take its toll on him, wearing him out until he could no longer go on. Spock did make a good point, though; Dan intended to stay for the long haul, and would have no choice but to persist until the end. But whether he would make it to that end was another question entirely.

Without thinking, Dan rose from his seat and started to pace, contemplating the significance of the documents.

"Hey Spock," he said at length. "Hear me out. So we've got Hybrids, Harvesters, and Titans, right? If the Shapeshifters are the First Wave... then do you think these other two might be the ones that are going to come afterward?"

"Well, I suppose," acknowledged Spock after some thought. "By convention, _first _does imply more than one."

Dan leaned back in the sofa. Spock fell silent as well, each beginning to grasp the magnitude of what they were dealing with. Dan soon arose from his seat, and started pacing around the room. That there could possibly be more waves to come perturbed him greatly. Not only did they have to contend with the might of the Shapeshifters, who have already proven to be formidable foes, but the ominous nature surrounding the other two names put him on edge. They were already beginning to haunt his consciousness, shapeless entities lurking just beyond the shadows.

"How exactly are we supposed to stop these guys?" started Dan after some time, completing another lap around the room. "We're outnumbered two to potentially thousands. I hate to admit it, but we're in over our heads at this point. We won't be able to pull this off by ourselves; look what good _that_ gave us. I mean, sure, we stuck a thorn in their side, but we almost got _killed _doing it. No... This is bigger than us, Spock."

Dan seated himself at his original spot. Spock continued to gaze at his partner, taking in every word of his partner's increasingly impassioned rant.

"If we're going to fight these guys, we're going to need some help," stated Dan.

"Are you suggesting that we form some sort of... _civilian resistance movement_?" clued Spock. "Hmmm... I like the way you think, Crow."

The novelty of the idea proved to be merely momentary, however, and Dan soon found himself losing confidence in the feasibility the notion.

"But how are we supposed to find enough people for a resistance?" asked Dan. "It's not like we can just staple posters to telephone poles and hand out fliers on the street."

"Then we'll spread the words by subtler means," mused Spock. "As you may recall, _I_ am the proprietor of a fairly popular truth-seeking website. I can easily spread our message to fellow believers; there's bound to be a few soldiers who'll rise to the call."

Dan nodded, staring out into space as his vision took form. It could work, he figured, if they recruited enough like-minded people. He pictured a secret brotherhood walking the streets of Boston: inconspicuous, law-abiding citizens by day, vigilantes with a mission by night. It would start small, of course, but word of their movement would hopefully propagate to other regions – as Dan had no doubt that the scale of the First Wave was global – and they would amass a force so grand that they could effectively rival the Shapeshifters and whatever other Waves dared to follow.

"Crow!" said Spock suddenly. "Starfleet Command to Crow! Do you read?"

"Uh, what?" asked Dan, resurfacing from his daydream.

"I thought you were going catatonic for a second," the grey-haired man said. "I said that we'll need to proceed with caution. I can't guarantee that many people will come forward to join our crusade. Hell, our plea could fall on deaf ears, for all we know. I think it would be best to adopt the mindset that we'll be operating solo from here on out, and adjust our strategies if and when others decide to join us."

"Yeah, I suppose you're right," conceded Dan. "So what now?"

"In the meantime, I guess we'll continue to do what we do best: going out on missions and kicking collective Shapeshifter ass. Oh, speaking of missions, I have another assignment that might interest you."

"What did you have in mind?" asked an eager Dan.

"I'm set to meet with a contact of mine tomorrow night," explained Spock, "a man who goes by the name of _Watchdog_. He alerted me of a possible First Wave hotspot that he has recently discovered, and has asked me to accompany him on a reconnaissance mission. I'm sure he won't mind if you tag along."

"Do you think this Watchdog would be partial to our resistance project?" asked Dan.

"I don't see why not," said Spock. "After all, he's a fellow Truth-Seeker. Furthermore, he's a known figure in the conspiracy underground, specializing in international cover-ups and seedy government activities and the like. With his help, we can surely reach a wider audience and increase the likelihood of our project's success."

"Then it's settled," said Dan, clasping his hands in approval. "We'll go through with this recon mission and approach the Watchdog with our proposition."

"Until that time, I suggest we continue combing this Intel for additional clues," said Spock. "I'll see if I can find any connections with my own documents and cross-reference what I find with the Altar of Truth."

At that moment, Dan's stomach emitted a feeble growl, as though it were a third party that had been neglected a say in their affairs up to that point. Spock's head snapped in direction of the Cylon-themed clock fixed on the wall.

"Six-thirty already?" asked Spock. "Geez, time sure flies by when you're busy plotting the downfall of your enemies."

"Here, here!" said Dan in jest, holding out his can of cola.

Spock mimicked the gesture, and the two noisily siphoned what little there remained in their respective cans before replacing them on the table.

"How's about we head across the street for some pizza?" Spock then asked, rising from his seat and stretching his back.

"Sounds great."

They put away the heap of papers and folders on the table into Spock's mega folder, which he went to go stash. Once all the necessities were dealt with, the pair left through the apartment door. An orange hue covered a dusking Malden, the waning sunlight reluctantly giving way to elongating shadows. After Spock locked the apartment door, they crossed the street in direction of the pizzeria.

"You know what?" said Dan as he held the pizzeria door open. "I have a good feeling about this."


	4. Chapter 3: Fatal Error

Chapter 3: Fatal Error

"_**Activate Event Protocol**_

_**Location Sector Beta-2 [50.11/08.682/03.57]**_

_**Time at 12:46:31 AM Local **_

_**[Priority code 3141]"**_

The clouds hung low over the Römerberg that day, pale and grey-stroked, with a pallid sun barely visible through the near-opaque blanket covering the sky. And while it was not too cold, humidity clung to the air, portending to eventual rainfall. Summer was all but dead at that point, having succumbed to its fate with a whimper rather than choosing to fight the oncoming autumn, and the people of Frankfurt cast disdainful glances at the greying skies that had plagued them since the transition to the equinox.

Activity was slowly dwindling now that noon had passed, but the square was still bumbling with the clamour of citizens and tourists alike as they went along their day. The few shops and boutiques, though emptier than they were but a half hour ago, still held a fair number of patrons. At one of the many tables at the square's outskirts sat a suited man, partially concealed by one of parasols that sheltered the outdoor tables of the coffee shop. From this particular vantage point, he could survey the plaza in its entirety, which is why he chose to sit there in the first place.

He had passed through the Römerberg many times before. The fifteenth-century houses that formed the eastern face of the square, the medieval-era church of St. Nicholas to his left, the Fountain of Justice that sat in the center of the plaza, upon which stood a stone Justitia, standing tall and proud with the scales of justice in her hand; all of them commonplace sights that became more endearing to him every time he saw them. And on the other side of the plaza, opposite of the coffee shop, was the Römer itself, the six hundred year-old namesake of the square. He was particularly fond of the building; its facade was appealing to his eyes. Its post-World War Two restoration was certainly a fine architectural work, but nothing could ever quite top the rustic charm of the original building.

He should know. After all, he was there when they first built it.

He sometimes yearned to go back to the day of its completion, to see the Römer in its prime once more. When he concentrated hard enough, he could discern a vague silhouette superimposed onto the building, echoes of a bygone era bouncing back to him through the annals of History. There were many such structures, many sights that he wished to revisit again, but alas, it was impossible for him to go back.

None of them could.

A waitress approached him, interrupting his observations.

''_Kann ich Ihnen einen Kaffee, Herr_?'' she asked.

''_Nein, danke_,'' he replied, declining her offer of coffee.

She then left, leaving March to his affairs.

The Witness peered through his specs for a second time, fact-checking all the acquired data and defining all the variables. With Frankfurt's proximity to the Central European Event Zone, it was a veritable spawning ground for significant Events, and was thus of great interest to the Witnesses. And the coming Event held more significance than the rest, thereby allotting it the status of a Major Event as opposed to a Minor one.

He checked his pocket watch one last time. The methods by which the humans measured time had always fascinated him. Being a Witness, he was far better acquainted with the continuous reality of time's flow than they were, but even so, he still admired the rhythmic and cyclical qualities of the systems they have devised. The hourglass in particular was one of his favourites. He once purchased one in 1472, and spent the afternoon of that day observing every single speck of sand as they fell one by one, only to flip the hourglass to restart the process anew when they had all fallen. He wondered what time-telling devices they would devise next.

He would have little time to think about it further. He swiftly replaced the watch in his pocket and raised his head to better observe the unfolding scene.

It had begun.

A trio of men made their entrance onto the plaza, darkly clothed and black-capped. They carried themselves casually, the middle one transporting a briefcase. Those they passed wondered who they could be or what their occupation was, only to set aside their theories as they continued along their own paths. The group came to a halt in the center of the square in front of the fountain, facing the Römer. March identified them as members of a group known as Apotheosis, one of many bio-terrorist cells that operated around the world. These three in particular have come to Frankfurt to host a demonstration of a bio-weapon for a potential client, which, in this case, was the Old World Society. March could discern their representative now, a bespectacled man who sat on a bench in the distance; he was smirking, and he glanced up periodically from the newspaper he was reading.

With the other two men standing guard with arms crossed behind their backs, the middle man – whom March identified as Julian Klein – set his briefcase down and opened it, removing a canister from inside. He then placed it upright on the ground, inputting a series of codes on a keypad embedded in its side. People continued to walk about in the meantime, staring with curiosity as they went to the men and their intriguing activities. But the men of Apotheosis paid no mind to them, standing with arms crossed behind their backs as Klein methodically modified the canister to its intended specifications. Once the setup was complete, he twisted the top, and the trio walked away as nonchalantly as they had arrived, leaving the imperceptible contents of the canister to leak into the atmosphere.

A middle aged man began to sweat, tugging on his collar. He then started to wheeze profusely and stumbled in his steps, kneeling down from the strain on his chest. A woman, noticing the man lurching forward with great difficulty, approached him with great concern.

But just as she was about to place her hand on his shoulder, he turned around, gazing with terrified eyes at his outstretched forearms, which were slowly bending down as though being reduced to gelatine-like consistency.

The woman screamed aloud, and the man's own pleading yells became nothing but a gurgling noise as his head deflated and his body slumped to the ground. With his bones reduced to a gelatinous slush, there was nothing to support his weight; only a deformed mass of skin, body tissue and organs remained.

Others now began to cough as well, stumbling forward as they too suffered the disintegration of their skeletal structures. The rest of the Römerberg was well aware of the situation at this point, and began fleeing the scene in a disorganized panic. But the bone-dissolving toxin was spreading fast, and managed to ensnare many innocent lives. March sat placid amidst the chaos, observing all possible outcomes, ensuring that those who were meant to die did, and that those who weren't fled the scene. The bespectacled man also made his exit, taking the carnage as his cue to disappear into the departing throng.

Julian Klein continued to push his way through the seemingly interminable fray. When he looked back, however, he saw one of his colleagues gasping for air, nose bleeding, while the other was already dead. Cursing, he turned around to flee with renewed haste, only to violently collide with another man, knocking them both to the ground. Klein got on his feet, slightly dazed. He began to press forward with a potential exit in sight when he was suddenly seized by a fit of coughing. Blood trickled from his lips, and he winced in pain, veins protruding on his face as he was forced to kneel from the effects of the bio-weapon.

With faltering strength, Klein fumbled to retrieve the syringe that he brought as a failsafe in case of potential contamination, the antidote which his comrades had failed to administer themselves with. March observed it all from where he sat, unmoving, satisfied with how smoothly the Event was unfolding. Klein's imminent death would mark the end of the Event, and March would then depart with another successful mission under his belt. Under his watchful eye, Klein removed a syringe from his coat, gripping it with a shaking arm, his entire body shuddering and wracking from the coughs. He wrestled with himself in a desperate attempt to bring the syringe to his neck, and his arm stayed at the same height, unable to bring it up any further.

But something was wrong.

The scales suddenly tipped in Klein's favour. Slowly, but steadily, the needle began moving closer and closer to his jugular. March was instantly alarmed, and doubled his focus to control the situation. But it felt as though something was interfering with him, an outside force competing with his perception; it was a jarring, unexpected sensation, and he fought to maintain supremacy over the Event's outcome. But March found himself quickly losing the struggle over Klein's fate, and in moments, it was too late. Summoning the last of his strength, Klein dug the syringe into his neck, and he bowed forward with ragged breaths as the antidote took effect. Shortly afterward, the Apotheosis member seized himself and fled the nearly empty scene, limping forward into one of the many alleys branching from the Römerberg.

March watched in shock as the repercussions of the Event's outcome instantly rippled outwards in space and time at the speed of light, changing the intended course of the future as decreed by the Directive and consequently giving rise to an Irregularity. The Witness stared at the body-littered square in transfixion, unable to comprehend how he could have allowed this to happen. Irregularities were occurrences in nature that normally arose due to factors outside the control of the Witnesses. There hasn't been many to date – thirty-three had occurred across both Sectors since the Witnesses first came to be – and they have all been relatively easy to correct.

The only Irregularity for which they were ever at fault was created by September's hand, when he caused Walter Bishop of Sector-1 from witnessing the successful stabilization of the cure that was to heal his son of his fatal condition. But through September's efforts, the situation was resolved, and the Boy managed to survive. March was in a less dire predicament, of course, as the Boy's survival far outweighed Klein's death in terms of significance, but in no way did that lessen the severity of his mistake.

The Witness continued to stare at the deserted scene. He first thought of the obvious consequences. Klein's survival was changing things in ways March already could not wholly predict. Being alive, his continued interaction with reality would undoubtedly have a huge impact on the impending weapons sale. Then he wondered how his fellow Witnesses would react. September's own mistake, though for the most part forgiven due to the measures he took to correct it, still remained in everyone's mind whenever they looked at him; March himself was ambivalent towards the Crépuscule Division Witness, but he knew others have been questioning his ability to perform ever since.

And then there was the Overseer. He would definitely be highly displeased, if not outright furious. There was nothing worse in his mind than having to suffer his scorn, an opinion shared by all of his fellow agents. It had only happened a few times, thankfully, mostly in beginning when their training was underway in the halls of Für Immer, but enduring his reproaches was almost as gruelling as some of the training they went through. And that was just training, where the stakes were not as high.

He remembered when September returned after the Overseer had summoned him in 1985, berating him for what he did, like a parent scolding their child. He was unusually silent and reserved for several days after the fact.

Unfortunately for March, he did not have September's experience in dealing with the humans, nor his masterful grasp of their craft, and it would be much more difficult to argue his case in front of the Overseer; he already began to dread the inevitable moment of his superior's return from his sojourn to Potential States.

Then his mind turned to the long-term repercussions. The outcome of the Event would change the course of the Silent War in ways that would not be readily obvious. The Witnesses were going to have a hard time trying to set things on their intended course once more, and the longer they took, the slimmer the probabilities of succeeding became. It was a disheartening prospect, made more acute knowing that his mishap was the cause.

He suddenly returned to his senses when he perceived the swirling form of the transparent gas fast approaching his current position. Swiftly, he gathered his belongings and retreated to the refuge of an adjoining alleyway, beyond the expanding reach of the thinning gas cloud. A few twists and turns later, he found himself on the streets of Frankfurt, which were slowly being emptied as people caught wind of the nearby incident. A squad of police cars whizzed pass, sirens ablaze. March remained neutral in all the commotion, but only outwardly so, for anxiety brewed within him, gnawing at his conscience.

He would have to report to the Arbiter. There wasn't much else he could do at that point; after all, the others were probably already aware of the Irregularity's occurrence. He figured that if he stepped forward and accepted responsibility for his actions instead of waiting for the others to approach him, then perhaps the consequences would be less dire, even if only marginally.

March stopped at an intersection. Something caught his attention at that moment; he saw a dark blot in the distance in the corner of his eye, moving along the Frankfurt Skyline. It went along so fast that he barely had time to register it, even with his superior temporal vision. And before he knew it, the shape was out of sight. It was odd occurrence, but he was forced to dismiss it, instead preparing himself to answer for his mistake, something that he most certainly did not look forward to.

He closed his eyes, braced for the trials ahead. And in the next second, he was gone, leaving but an inconspicuous whirlwind of dust at the street corner where he stood but a moment ago.

* * *

><p><em>AN: As it happens, I came up with the idea for a bone-dissolving substance several months before episode 3.12 aired (the one with the bone-dissolving compound), though when it did air, I decided to go with my idea anyway. _

_The majority of the overarching backstory and plot for the seven installments of the series were plotted out during the S2-S3 hiatus. You can thus imagine my surprise when they did do such an episode, and in S3-S4, Fringe would make a few more startling PTS parallels. So if there are events in future installments that seem eerily similar to what has happened in the show, you'll know why. XD_

_As a side note, the series was planned out before it was revealed that the Observers could time travel (as shown in 3.10), so I didn't factor such an ability in the Witnesses. And the Observers have never referred to themselves as "Observers" by the S2 finale, either, so I developed the term of the Witnesses. _

_This is all just in case you were wondering where all of this might have come from. ;)_


	5. Chapter 4: Watchers in the Night

Chapter 4: Watchers in the Night

A brown Oldsmobile scurried along in the darkness of Watertown, coming to a halt as it made a turn on Rosedale Road and entered a dusty old lot behind nearby buildings. Once parked, Dan emerged and stepped out onto the lot, followed shortly by Spock. He took the scene in, noting the decommissioned vehicles and large panel doors encrusted in the rear face of the building before him – an auto repair shop, he surmised – which delimited the western side of the lot's enclosure. A few lamps were affixed to the other buildings, whose light eclipsed an otherwise starry sky. The night was cool and crisp, and Dan exhaled cloudy jets as Spock rummaged through the trunk of his car in search of their backpacks.

Once found, the two grabbed their respective bags before Spock closed the trunk's lid. They had already prepared themselves at Dan's apartment – much as they had done on their previous outing – donning the same dark, mundane clothing, along with the aluminum foil-lined bean caps which Dan continued to find bothersome. Regardless, he silently tolerated his discomfort as he trailed behind Spock to intercept the individual who came to meet them.

The man was younger than Dan by a few years, and was of lanky build. He too bore the standard Truth-Seeker uniform of dark and concealing clothing, though his beanie was only partially placed upon his head, sticking up on the summit of his long, shaggy brown hair which he periodically swept to the side with a sweep of the hand. There was aloofness to his eyes, which were small and perpetually squinting, as though he had just then awakened from sleep.

Coming near the duo, he cracked a warm smile and made a Vulcan salute with a gloved hand, a gesture Spock immediately reciprocated.

"The great Spock cometh," said the man wryly. "Glad you could make it, man."

"Likewise, good sir," replied Spock with a slight inclination.

The man then eyed the stranger who stood at Spock's side; the grey-bearded man quickly caught on and presented Dan to his acquaintance.

"Watchdog, I'd like you to meet my esteemed colleague, Crow," he said.

"Ah, yes, the fabled Crow," said Watchdog as he shook Dan's hand. "Spock's told me much about you."

"Call me Dan," he responded. "Daniel Thompson."

"Gary Saunders," said Watchdog. "I've seen the footage of the First Wave ambush you guys took. That was something else, man. It's going viral all across the underground. If you keep it up, you'll become a full-on celebrity in no time."

"Um... thanks," replied Dan, unaccustomed to being lauded with such praise. "So, where are we off to tonight?"

"Right," said Gary. "So, there's like this hardware store not too far from here that I have reason to suspect to be a hide-out for the shifters."

"Are you sure they're First Wave?" asked Dan.

"No doubt about it, man," said Gary. "Check it out. Around three weeks ago, I stumbled on a couple of shifter eggs and followed them from afar once they hatched."

"Shapeshifters lay eggs?" asked Dan, incredulous.

"I'm not sure," specified Gary. "They looked more like some sort of weird, fleshy organic incubation pods than actual eggs. Anyway, so I'm hiding out, right, and I watch them ambush these two unsuspecting soccer moms and take on their identities – 'cause they didn't have a human identity yet, you know. After that, I followed them to the store. Since then, I've been keeping tabs on activities in that general area."

Dan tried to imagine what a shapeless Shapeshifter would look like; the only thing that came to mind was vaguely humanoid shadow. He shuddered.

"Sounds like the real deal to me," said Spock, stroking his goatee. "What's the plan?"

"Alright, listen up, guys," said Gary before kneeling down to the ground.

The others followed suit, and watched as Gary traced out the perimeter of the base in the dirt.

"So this is the place, right," he began. "You have the main building here, and this whole area is the back lot. They have a shifter or two guarding the front gates at all times. Also, it's very likely that the main lot probably has security cameras or some other type of surveillance, so we can't risk entering the premises directly."

He drew a wavy line behind his map of the establishment.

"Luckily for us, the Charles River runs behind the place."

"We're not going to have to swim, are we?" asked Dan.

"Don't worry about it, man," assured Gary. "There's like this scenic path or whatever that runs along the riverside. So what I'll do is I'll lead the way around the block past a park just east from here, and we'll enter the trail from there. We'll then walk upriver until we get behind the back lot, and then climb the trees at its perimeter. The trees will give us a good vantage point for surveillance, and the brush also doubles as cover, so the chances of getting spotted are significantly reduced, you know."

"That's a pretty solid plan you have there," said Dan.

Watchdog shrugged in modesty. "So, any objections?"

"None from me," said Spock.

"Alright, then," said Gary. "Follow my lead."

The trio departed, with the Watchdog slightly ahead of the pack. When they came to the edge of the lot, Gary raised his hand, bidding the rest to stop. He then inched onto the sidewalk, and, seeing that the coast was clear, beckoned them forth with a wave. Spock followed with a cautious, almost feline prowl, while Dan remained at the rear, keeping an eye behind them. They opted to stay away from the streets for the most part, instead cutting across parking lots and behind buildings, clinging to the shadows as often as they were able to.

They soon came upon Pleasant Street and quickly crossed to the other side where an access point to the riverside path was found. Once there, they continued along the gentle and undulating curves of river, whose surface shimmered with the light of the stars. It took a solid five minutes before they reached the compound. They crouched along the fence and knelt behind the trees, placing their bags at their feet. Dan moved some brush aside and peered through the fence's mesh to see if there was any activity on the lot, but his periphery was limited by surrounding plants, and he could only make out a small section of the area.

"Okay, guys," hushed Gary. "We'll set ourselves up at equal intervals. Spock, you take the far left. I'll take the right, and Dan will take the middle. That way, we'll have eyes on the entire lot. We'll communicate exclusively with these walkie-talkies; make sure you keep the volume low and set them on channel two. If anyone sees anything, let the rest know."

Spock and Gary sped off in either direction, leaving Dan to the mercy of the night. With an apprehensive sigh, he began climbing the nearest tree. He tried to make as little noise as possible, which made the ascent painstakingly strenuous; he winced at every rustle of leaves he inadvertently made, fearing that a nearby Shapeshifter would hear him and lunge into the tree and drag him to the ground below. And upon reaching an appropriate height, it was even harder to find a comfortable position, as the winding branches weren't exactly tailored to accommodate the human rump. Nevertheless, he eventually found a suitable location, sitting in lotus position while resting his back against the trunk. There was a nearby stub that erupted from the tree just across from him, and he placed his pack upon it, using it as an easily accessible hook. His newfound nest properly furnished, Dan summoned a pair of binoculars to survey the scene.

Though the foliage blocked access to the sky, he held a decent view of the lot below, and make out the entire rear face of the building. The right half of the store's rear section jutted out; a large, white panel door was embedded in the diagonal wall connecting that section to the other half. Near this panel door – which Dan guessed was the loading dock – was singular door, set in the left, receding portion of the store's posterior facade. The rest of the area was nondescript; he didn't spot any security cameras either. Either the Shapeshifters weren't programmed with common sense, or they figured that of all places, a lawn care accessory store would be the last place a human would care to break-in and rob.

_"Dan, do you copy?" _asked Gary's voice through Dan's transceiver._ "Over."_

_"Loud and clear," _replied Dan. "_Uh...over._"

_"How's it looking so far? Over."_

_ "There doesn't seem to be any significant activity. Over."_

_"Yeah, the right-hand corridor is clean as well. I also checked in with Spock, and he says he can see someone posted out by the front gate, but nothing else is going on. I guess we'll have to sit tight for awhile, then. If you see anything, let me know. Over and out."_

Silence fell. Dan remained still, watching the compound and keeping an eye out for any suspicious development. As time when on, Dan had to periodically change positions in order to ward off the numbness and cramping that took hold of his legs and hindquarters.

_"Hey, Gary?" _asked Dan. _"Do you read? Over."_

_ "Go ahead," _he replied. "_Over_."

_"What have you gathered about this place up to now? Over."_

_ "Not much, man," _admitted Gary. _"There's a decent amount of traffic during the day, but it's impossible to tell shifter activity from legitimate business with actual customers, you know? And I've surveyed the place a few times now, but I haven't gotten anything conclusive yet. Over."_

Dan acquiesced with a nod. The Shapeshifters probably did have to keep their public fronts operational if they were to maintain the illusion of normalcy, he supposed.

_ "...There might be something else, though," _said Gary after some time. "_Over_."

_"What is it?"_

"_Well," _he began_, "at one point, I decided to walk by the front of the compound – to get a good look at the place, you know. As I pretended to tie my shoes, this guy walks up to one of the guards out front, and he says 'Hey, you guys wouldn't happen to have any John Deere lawn mowers here, would ya?' Then the guard says 'As a matter of fact, we do. Just head out back that way and the guys will hook you up.' And then he lets the guy in through the gate. The whole exchange felt pretty 'off' to me, which is probably the only reason I even remember it now. I don't know if it has any greater significance than that, though. Over."_

"_Do you remember if he asked for a specific model?" _inquired Dan. "_Over._"

"_I think it was a 6055R Waterloo Boy,_" replied Gary. "_Over_."

_ "That must be their password," _surmised Dan.

_"...Password?"_ asked Gary.

_"They seem to base their passwords on non-existent models for things. I guess it's so that the Shapeshifters can easily identify one another. And I'll bet you anything that this "Waterloo Boy" model doesn't even exist. Over."_

It was silent for a moment until Spock called in on his radio, clearly munching on some snacks that he had brought along.

_"Be advised that... there's a truck coming in... through the gate... Over."_

Dan's sight whipped to the left; through his binoculars, he saw a truck appear onto the premises, coming to a park near the perimeter of the lot and causing Dan to tense up due to their proximity. A man came outside of the building just as the driver and his passenger stepped down from the vehicle. The three congregated at the side of the truck and conversed; they were just close enough so that Dan could make out what they were saying.

"Has everything been accounted for?" asked the man from Rickman, apparently in charge of the establishment.

"One crate of M-Shots, a shipment of ammunition, and brand new filters for the Incubation Tanks, just as you guys ordered," said the driver. "By the way, how are those Titans coming along?"

"Gestation is on schedule," said the leader. "They're almost at eight weeks now, so once they're ripe, we'll ship them to the facility in Newark for acclimatization."

"Sounds great," said the moustachioed passenger. "I hear fully matured units are popping up all over the place, now. Switzerland, Fiji, China, Egypt."

"Is that right?" said the leader, pleasantly surprised. "Well, they surely won't be the last. I'll have the others carry the shipment inside."

With that, the leader returned inside the building, leaving the other two to open the truck's rear panel outside of earshot. As they busied themselves, Dan placed a call to Spock.

_"Dude! Did you hear what I just heard?" _

_"Sure did,"_ whispered Spock with the same enthusiasm. _"Looks like we hit the motherload! Over."_

_"Hey, fellas,"_ hushed Gary. _"Any ideas on what a Titan is supposed to be? Over."_

_ "We're not quite sure yet," _explained Dan_, "but from what we can tell –" _

_ "You can tell him all about them later, Crow," _interrupted Spock, who was able to butt in when Dan's thumb slid off the transceiver's button._ "They're coming back now. Maintain radio silence. Over."_

The white panel door of the store's loading dock was opened, and out came a quartet of Shapeshifters, with two of them rolling a large trolley to the truck. Working in tandem with the drivers, they placed a large crate onto the trolley, which they then transported back inside the loading dock, going back and forth for every such crate and carrying the smaller boxes by hand. The head Shapeshifter reappeared, addressing the delivery men as the final few goods were whisked away.

"Might as well take care of the formalities," said the leader. "How much do I owe you?"

"That'll be two hundred and twenty-five dollars," said the driver.

The leader summoned his due amounts and placed them in the delivery man's outstretched hands, who placed the bills in his pockets before returning a receipt of the exchange. The delivery men then entered their truck and the leader bid them farewell before returning inside.

And silence befell the nigh, the compound returning to its once inactive state.

_ "Alright, gents, I think that'll do for tonight,"_ declared Gary. _"Let's regroup below."_

Dan complied, grabbing his pack and shimmying down the tree, landing on the ground with a thud. His eyes were well-adjusted to the darkness at that point, and he could see the forms of his partners as they approached his position. Once they had regrouped, Gary led the way back up the path. It was only when they reached the streets again that the trio dared to break the silence.

"Well, I think it's safe to say that the mission was a success," said Dan, walking backwards as he faced the others.

"It may be a little soon for celebration, Crow," warned Spock. "Now we not only have to contend with the Shapeshifters, but now we have _Titans_ to worry about as well. Not to mention the Harvesters, whatever the hell _those_ might be."

"I guess you're right," recanted Dan. "What do you make of all this, Gary?"

"I think they're building an army."

Dan and Spock fell silent at the foreboding possibility.

"Think about it," he continued. "The First Wave is an invasion force sent to blend in with their enemy – which would be us. My guess is that the shifters are paving the way for whatever comes next. I mean, if you're planning an invasion, you want the least resistance possible.

"Maybe," said Dan. "But if they do want to start a war, then maybe we should be the ones to strike first."

The trio turned into the dusty lot where their vehicles were stationed, coming to a stop in the middle of the terrace.

"What are you saying?" asked Gary. "That we form a band of vigilantes and go guerrilla on these guys?"

"Think of it more as a civilian resistance," explained Dan. "It's an idea Spock and I have been discussing recently. The way I figure, we need to gather as many people who are willing to fight for the cause before it's too late. I mean, the entirety of the human race might be at stake, for all we know."

"It _could_ work," mused Gary, stroking his chin as he humoured the idea. "It would start small, of course, but with time, and enough recruits, it could potentially end up becoming an entire movement. I see people talking about uniting their forces all the time, but few ever actually go through with it, and those that do never really achieve much because they lack the numbers to do so. Maybe it's about time that someone did something of value for once."

"So you're in, then?" asked Dan.

"Yeah, man, totally!" agreed Gary. "I'll start spreading the word as soon as possible to my followers."

"And I'll do the same," said Spock. "With our combined resources, we can easily reach a widespread population."

"We'll need a name for our organization, though," said Gary.

"I've been thinking about that, actually," said Dan. "How about we call it _The Liberation Front_? Might not be the most creative name in the history of names, but it's to the point and memorable, not to mention that it rolls nicely off the tongue."

"Yeah, I like it," approved Gary. "Alright, it's official then. To the Liberation Front!"

The Watchdog stretched his fist forward. Dan and Spock did the same, all three sets of knuckles colliding in an act marking the foundation of their resistance project.

"We'll keep in touch," said Gary, saluting his comrades as he left for his car.

Spock and Dan lingered at the scene while the Watchdog departed in his vehicle, rolling out of sight.

"Alright, Crow," said Spock, patting his partner on the shoulder. "We'd better get going."

Emmanuel then made for the Oldsmobile, jingling his keys in his hand. Dan stood for a moment, staring up at the sky and revelling in the initial breakthrough of his vision. He wasn't confident in the idea at first, but as their aspirations for the resistance gradually concretized, a sense of excitement grew within him. Perhaps now they would have an actual fighting chance against the Waves of the invasion force. Content, he exhaled deeply and turned to rejoin Spock.

But as he did, he caught something in the corner of his eye. He made a double-take, only to see, at the very end of the lot and across the street, a suited man, peering at him through a small pair of binoculars.

The Man in Black.

Dan had almost forgotten about the mysterious figure. He remembered when he saw him the night they escaped from the wrecked outpost, looking back at him – through him – with a gaze that had an almost physical _weight_ to it. Dan wasn't even sure the man was real, that maybe the stress of the mission had caused him to hallucinate.

Realizing that he had been spotted – although Dan wondered if he had already foreseen that he would be – the Man in Black sheathed his specs, standing tall and erect and without motion in the artificial light of the streetlamp above him.

"Spock!" he exclaimed, eyes remaining locked on mysterious man. "Do you see that?"

Spock took his head out of the trunk, scouring the night with wary eyes.

"I don't know," said Spock, head spinning about. "What exactly am I looking for?"

Dan glanced back at his partner, flabbergasted that he couldn't see what was clearly in front of him. But when he looked back at the road, the man was nowhere in sight.

"Damn it!" said Dan.

He bolted to the edge of the lot, stopping in the middle of the road and scanning left and right for any sign of the suited man; but it was too late.

The Man in Black was gone.

Spock caught up with his partner, caught off guard by his impulsive behaviour.

"What was that all about?" he said, panting.

"I saw the Man in Black again," said Dan. "He was _right there_ on the sidewalk, staring right at me!"

"Well, I guess he must have teleported when you weren't looking or something," said Spock. "The Men in Black _are_ a pretty elusive bunch, after all."

"Yeah, but why the hell is he following me around?" asked Dan.

"Maybe you should ask him next time he shows up," suggested Spock. "Anyway, there's no use in standing around here. It's getting kinda late. Come on, I'll give you a lift back to your place."

Dan gazed down the road once last time, and followed Spock in resignation. He had a feeling that this eerie stalker of his knew exactly was going on, and then some. As the pair shuttled down the streets in the brown Oldsmobile, Dan stared out the window, scanning the darkness in the faint hope that he might spot the outline of a figure carrying a briefcase and sporting a neat fedora.

He wouldn't let him get away so easily next time.


	6. Chapter 5: Pariahs

Chapter 5: Pariahs

A resonant din – a blend of chattering voices, mechanical pounds, and electric hums, topped with periodic announcements made by disembodied voices in the intercoms above – reverberated across Frankfurt International Airport. Formless clouds of people went about in every direction; they were almost ant-like in their procession, mingling and scurrying along, the light, sleek frame of the airport complex acting as their hive.

It was nearing two o'clock in the afternoon when a group of these people began congregating outside Gate B-5, which was located alongside the rest of the B-series in the eastern wing of the terminal. They gathered behind the steel guardrail in loose formation, keeping an eye out for any sign of those they awaited. The white tile floor and silver facade of the gate ahead contrasted with the vibrant, warm colours plastered on the side walls of the entryway, scenes painted in the reds and yellows and blacks of the German nation.

September stood idly among the fluid crowd, watching the gateway as they were, albeit much more intently. He had acquired a certain affinity for airport atmosphere; the ambient humdrum stimulated his senses, while lights and colours emanating from various sources, natural or otherwise, blended together in an appealing way. He thought it unfortunate that airports were but a relatively recent creation, and that he seldom had any reason to be in one.

His sights quickly turned to the gate, perceiving the temporal precursors of the oncoming passengers of a plane landing fresh from Logan International. Moments later, an influx of arrivals entered the scene, carrying their belongings with them. They craned their necks around, searching for faces familiar to them; those on the other side of the fence did likewise, signalling to their target when they spotted them. Many reunions ensued: relatives and friends gathered, business partners greeted each other, strangers met in person for the first time. And a few were lone travellers, weaving through seas of individuals to pursue their own personal matters.

September's eyes sorted through the parade of passengers, searching for someone familiar to him as well, a woman just as important to his organization as the other passengers were for those who welcomed them, and in some ways, even more. He now started to see an ethereal projection turn out of the entrance, a continuous, elongating fluid bubble in the shape of a woman in her thirties. Her hair was blond and fell straight to her shoulders, and she wore a simple black suit over a simple white blouse.

The Witness continued to observe Special Agent Olivia Dunham as she stepped off the plane and made her way to meet with Lucas Vogel, a man who was many things to Olivia, but for now was her best bet to obtaining the audience she sought with David Robert Jones. To September, however, she was but one thing.

A Subject.

He remembered the day when the Overseer had officially decreed her as a Subject in 1982, a year after Colonel James Dunham had agreed to enlist his daughter in Doctors Bishop and Bell's Cortexiphan Trials. A few other children from the trials were declared Subjects around the same time, and one or two more in the years to follow. But according to Mercedony, none were as significant as Olivia. And September had a sense what he spoke of when he looked upon her. He understood what a Subject was, but not why they are chosen; the Overseer often refrained from explaining the reasoning behind his decisions, only doling out the information necessary for his agents to carry out their assignments.

Besides, September had never really concerned himself with asking questions.

She was very close, now; he perceived the astral silhouette that was to become Olivia look in his direction. Her senses were keener than most, he knew, and he could not risk her spotting him there. He broke away from the dwindling masses just as Olivia walked on scene, armed with the knowledge that she had arrived safely in Sector Beta.

The skies outside were clear and blue save for a grey wave of eastbound clouds galloping in the city's general direction. The airport's main entrance was a very busy area, where a continuous flow of people entered and exited the building like the erythrocytes of a circulatory system. A sudden strong wind came howling from above, causing the edges of September's suit to ruffle. He decided to don his fedora, not because of the cold, but because the sweeping gusts caused an unwelcome tickling sensation as they slithered across his exposed scalp. He observed the unfolding scene for a moment, breaking things down to all of their constituents as was his habit, then set down his briefcase to free his hands for use of his MultiCell.

"I have arrived," said September into the device after placing the call. "The oversight of the Subject has proceeded without complication."

"Good," replied the Arbiter of the Aube Division his grave, powerful voice. "I will send you the coordinates for the rendezvous point shortly."

The brief exchange ended, and a string of numbers then appeared on the round screen. With a press of a few keys, the interface changed to that of a small map, with the Witness represented by a red dot that pinged every few seconds. He replaced the device in his pocket, taking note of where he needed to go. When he was certain than he wasn't being actively observed, he changed his probable location, ending up in the neighbourhood of Griesheim. He continued walking for awhile and, when unobserved once more, jumped again, this time to Gallusviertel. And whenever the opportunity presented itself, he would jump to yet another part of town, getting closer and closer to his destination every time he used the Roads Less Traveled By.

Frankfurt, like other cities scattered across Sector Beta, held a distinctive quality to it that September found alluring, a nameless quality which he had observed was far less present in the cities of Sector Alpha. Being assigned to the Crépuscule Division, the Witness did not travel to Europe often, as his Division primarily oversaw Events in the Atlantic Seaboard Event Zone, but his rare, brief sojourns across the Atlantic Ocean have always been enjoyable ones. The history of the land was almost tangible there, saturating the soil that he currently walked upon. Skyscrapers stood side by side with centuries-old historical landmarks, a collision of worlds both old and new, with citizens equally as varied in their ages and experiences stepping past them. And the more he focused his fine-tuned perception, the farther in the past he could see them all, reviewing and replaying their journey through space and time at his leisure.

He was in Bockenheim now, making a left turn on a street that banked downhill. He then proceeded to past through a small way bordered by trees, marking the entrance to the Grüneburgpark. He followed the coordinates on his MultiCell down a long, winding path, leading him at last to a small row of unoccupied picnic tables. Seeing as none were present, he had no other choice but to wait.

So he waited.

"Greetings," said January as he pulled up beside him, having just arrived via the RLTB.

September looked over to see the Arbiter of the Aube Division. He was imposing in stature, with a tall frame and wide shoulders. The naked ridges of his brows were thick, and his nose was slender and aquiline against his square, angular face and strong jaw line. In one large hand, he held the standard Witness briefcase, while the other clenched two bags of food.

"I have taken the liberty of bringing you some as well," he continued, passing a bag to September. "Come, sit."

He responded to the Arbiter's beckon, and the two seated themselves at one of the tables. September reached into his bag to pull out two ham and smoked meat sandwiches, topped with horseradish mustard and squeezed neatly between fresh Kaiser Buns. They devoured the sandwiches as they spoke.

"I trust that the module has been secured," said January between bites.

"Yes," assured September. "It is in the briefcase."

"May I see it?" asked January, having already finished his meal.

"Certainly."

After licking what mustard remained on his fingertips, January set aside his wrappers to make room for the briefcase, spinning it around as he did. His large index finger flipped the dials of the combination lock, and with a satisfying click, the case opened. September watched with poorly-bated curiosity as the Arbiter removed the module from its insulating nest to place it on the wooden table.

The device was circular, about the circumference of a large Frisbee. The body was flattened and conical in appearance, navy in hue, and sectioned into four sloping parts which extended upwards from their bases. And at the top was a round hole, like a volcanic crater, where the holographic projector was housed, taking the form of a polished black sphere. September also noticed similar reflective material embedded in the sides of the module, which he surmised were additional holographic outputs.

September found himself staring at the device in admiration. The Witnesses were always impressed by the Overseer's creations, and this one proved no less stunning.

"Fascinating, is it not?" commented January, similarly enraptured. "Thank you for transporting the module safely, September. I will have it delivered shortly."

"Will the Courier be meeting with us here?" asked September.

"I wasn't intending on using Couriers, actually. I was instead planning on having February take it directly to Für Immer. It isn't too far from here, after all."

January replaced the module in the case with great care. The Witnesses then sipped on their respective cups of chilli pepper juice, listening to the trees shiver in the wind. September let his mind wander, his thoughts moving from the peculiar behaviour of tachyon particles, to the sandwiches he had just ate, to the time in 1644 when a French prostitute approached him and offered him her services, confusing him a great deal and causing her to depart when he declined, but not before uttering a flurry of obscenities. After some time, however, and despite himself, his thoughts meandered back to the events of the Beacon assignment, unable to stop playing them over and over like a faulty record.

"...What do you know of Robert Bishop?" asked September tentatively after many long minutes.

January snapped out of his own complacency, tilting his head slightly to the side.

"Why do you ask?" inquired the Arbiter.

"I am simply...curious," replied September.

"...Very well," began January. "As it happens, Robert Bishop was originally one of April's Subjects. He was a scientist working for the Nazi regime during the Second World War, and was heavily involved in the initial experiments in parallel realities that led to the formation of the Central European Event Zone and the beginnings of the Colder War. His Nazi colleagues eventually discovered his treason, prompting him to flee to the United States. He eventually faked his own death in 1944 and continued to live in secrecy until his actual death in 1961."

"Do you know why he faked his death?" asked September.

"I cannot say, unfortunately," replied January. "We know that he did something that caused the American Military to pursue him, but our Proxies at the time were not able to ascertain the reason why they did."

"I see."

"Does this satisfy your curiosity?"

"Yes. Thank you for telling me this."

January seemed pleased, though still somewhat puzzled at the agent's inquiry; in a head-tilt that might have equated to a shrug, he contented himself to pour another cup of scorching chilli pepper juice. Meanwhile, September took the time to review the information that the Arbiter had imparted. He was intrigued by the tale of Robert's life, and the Witness tried to picture what kind of man he was, wondering if he had been as fascinating as Walter. But most curious of all was his staged death. He conjured many scenarios aiming to fill in the blanks, each one more outlandish than the last. After some time, however, he abandoned that path, acknowledging that he may never know what happened to Robert Bishop, even though he hoped that one day, he would.

Their thermoses gradually emptied, and January, checking his pocket watch, arose from his seat, causing September to follow suit. They discarded their trash in a nearby bin before coming to a halt on the path.

"You are staying here for a few days, are you not?" asked January.

"Yes," stated September. "As long as Olivia Dunham does."

"You are going to be hard pressed to keep yourself entertained, then," noted the Arbiter. "If you are interested, perhaps you should accompany April and June tonight. As I understand it, they are going to attend an opera concert. Have you ever been to one?"

"No, I have not."

"Neither have I," said January. "I would accompany you as well, but I have other matters to take care of –"

Their heads shot skyward in alarm as it came crashing down on them like a tsunami wave. Temporal ripples coursed through their bodies and minds, probabilities changing and futures altering to ones that diverged from their intended course of events. The two looked at each other with the same stupefaction as the repercussions of the newborn Irregularity spread across space-time. Minutes later, there was a sudden presence behind them, given away by a slight displacement of air and a momentary snapping sensation that tugged at the back of their minds. They turned to see March standing on the pathway; his head was angled towards the ground, averting the eyes of the other two Witnesses.

"I have made... a mistake," he announced at length, voice tinged with culpability.

September and January were stunned, still reeling from the jarring shift in their vision of the future. It took a moment before January was able to compose himself.

"What have you done?" reproached the Arbiter. "How could your perception have faltered to such a point?"

"I do not know what happened," said March. "It felt as though something was interfering with my observation. Before I realized what was occurring... it was too late."

"You have caused us much trouble, March," replied January. "It will require much of our time and energy to restore the course of the Directive."

"How exactly _are _we going to fix this?" asked September. "The Overseer is absent, and he has always been the one to tell us how to correct Irregularities when they occurred."

January seemed ready to answer, but paused, considering the agent's point for a few moments before he spoke.

"In the Overseer's absence," began the Arbiter, "it will be up to us to correct it on our own. I will have to confer with December so that we may devise a solution to this affair. You should depart for Sector Alpha as soon as Olivia does, September, as the repercussions will undoubtedly extend to both Sectors Alpha and Beta. As for you, March, the Overseer will deal with you when he returns."

March eyes fell once more. The Arbiter turned to leave, but not before giving September a passing glance, recalling the Crépuscule agent's own mistake and causing September to look away as well. January then began to retread the path with haste. September watched him leave before turning away; when he glanced back again, the Arbiter was gone, with nothing but a few whirling leaves to suggest that he ever existed.

September and March remained at the scene for a long time. An awkward silence developed between them, almost palpable in its tension as those responsible for the only two Irregularities created by the hands of the Witnesses basked in their shared culpability. September looked at his colleague, noting how confused and distraught March appeared to be. He remembered his own puzzlement on that night in 1985, how his perception had failed him, causing a divergence in the Directive and giving rise to the first Witness-created Irregularity in the history of their organization. He remembered the regret that seized him when he realized the scope of his error, the anxiety he felt when he was forced to confront December about his mistake, the shame he experienced when the Overseer chastised him in the white halls of Für Immer.

He imagined that March must have been in a similar state at that moment. The others had looked at September differently ever since the fallout of the Zero Event; though they said nothing, he knew that they viewed him as pariah of sorts, and while the stigma had worn off over the years, he would forevermore be associated with his mistake. And September was constantly reminded of what he had done whenever he perceived the Veil, knowing that he had a hand in its accelerating decay and consequently catalysing the Silent War that would facilitate the Collision.

And now there would be two pariahs, two agents who had failed their Witness brethren. March looked up at September, who stared back, both of them silently acknowledging that fact. September thought for a moment that perhaps he should say something to him, anything at all, but no words came to him; for there was nothing more that could be said. So he adjusted the brim of his fedora and started down the path, leaving his fellow Witness on his own.

As for March, he continued to linger on the path, a light breeze as his only company. He too eventually left, at first with hesitant steps, then eventually settling in a steady, yet half-hearted gait as he pondered with a certain sense of dread what was to come.

* * *

><p><em>AN: In the show, Robert's gravestone said he died in 1944. And yet, Walter was born in 1946. So either this was a continuity gaffe, or...o.O_


	7. Chapter 6: Orbis Antiqui

Chapter 6: Vetus Universitas

A woman named Heather opened her eyes to be blinded by an uncomfortably bright light.

Moaning faintly with grogginess, she perked up her head and took in the scene with hazy eyes. It was a spacious area, with white, antiseptic walls demarcating what appeared to be an octagonal room. A large, rectangular mirror was embedded in the porcelain tile wall to her left. Turning her head to the other side of the room, she could see someone dressed in a lab coat, facing away from her; the individual seemed oblivious to Heather's presence, instead opting to keep an eye on monitors displaying things she didn't understand, along with manipulating various vials and chemicals arranged on a nearby table. The whole setting felt surreal, and Heather was still too woozy to consciously analyze her surroundings.

She tried to move her arms, but found it strange when she could not; it was as though she were pinned down by some invisible force. Glancing down, she could see with a clearing vision that her wrists were strapped to the bed upon which she now lay; additional shackles tied down her ankles, and a belt ran across her abdomen, further immobilizing her. The sight instantly brought her back to lucidity as it occurred to her that this wasn't right at all. She began to wriggle in her bonds, at first in the hope that they would loosen, then with surmounting panic as her struggling proved more and more futile. Her breath started to come in shallow bursts, and beads of water welled in the corners of her eyes as a result of her increasing distress.

"Hello?" she croaked to the man at the table. "What's going on?"

The man said nothing, fully absorbed in his work. Heather wondered how exactly she ended up in this situation, trying to piece together the fragments of memories that began to resurface in her mind. She went out on the previous night – or was it the night before? She couldn't quite say. It was their two-year anniversary, and Dylan had taken her out to a fancy Italian restaurant. And after that, they enjoyed a long walk on the riverside walkways under the stars. He stopped to kneel before her; she was overjoyed. He left to use the washroom, and shortly afterwards, gazing upon the river, she felt a pair of gloved hands grab her, masking her mouth with a sweet-smelling cloth, and darkness took her...

She looked down at her hand. The ring was nowhere to be found.

Heather was sobbing now, the nearby heart rate monitor mirroring her rising fear. A voice spoke, and the man in the lab coat looked across the room; she hadn't even noticed the other man that had been standing close to her all that time, reviewing data on a computer screen. Though they now seemed aware that she had regained consciousness, they paid no mind to her frantic pleas to let her go, and when the man held up a syringe and flicked the needle, she began fighting frantically against the leather straps, eyes astride with terror. The two came to either side of her, with one of them holding her down as the other brought the syringe to her arm, and she screamed aloud in protest, the foreign bluish substance invading her veins.

A man named Adam watched the experiment unfold from behind the one-way mirror. He stood the middle of a dimly-lit corridor, with only incandescent light bulbs showing the way. His suit was expensive, sleek and elegant, decorated with a crimson tie and a metallic pin shaped like an "A" turned on its side, the symbol of the organization of which he was a prominent member. His hands remained clasped behind his back as he observed the proceedings in the adjacent room, mulling in deep thought. They have been attempting to synthesize their newest bio-weapon for the past year, a chemical agent that would render the carrier a virtual Tesla Coil. The charge would accumulate in their body, and through remote activation, the build-up would be released, electrocuting everyone in the vicinity of the carrier with a deadly string of chain-lightning.

But all subjects so far had proven to be failures, their bodies proving incompatible with the compounds entirely, and he hoped that this one would at least show _some_ improvement.

He had a feeling that their rivals would be envious of a weapon of such ambitious design. Conrad Moreau, a notorious arms dealer on the fringes of the Black Market, as well as an old acquaintance of Adam's, had expressed interest in the weapon upon their last encounter, offering to sell it on the market for a share of the profits. To his surprise, Adam had declined. It wasn't about the money, he told Moreau; it was about the resolve, to rise victorious among your fallen enemies, to remain the last one standing in the fight to protect that which you fight for.

A man named Quentin approached Adam at the observation window, hand in one pocket and the other swinging back and forth as he walked. He was young-featured, and sharply dressed, too, sporting the same Phoenician Aleph pin as Adam on his lapel.

"Ah, Quentin," said Adam, turning. "_Quid improuiso iucundum_."

"_Possem dicere idem_," replied Quentin in equally fluent Latin. "How is the experiment going?"

Quentin joined Adam in the observation of the experiment, peering into the window as the pair of scientists on the other side attempted to stabilize the test subject.

"So far, so good," explained Adam. "We'll only know in a few more minutes if the compound is rejected by the body or not, though."

"I see."

They continued to look on in anticipation for a few moments. Adam jaws clenched rhythmically as he stared ahead with dark, tired eyes.

"You seem a little upset, Adam," noted Quentin.

"It's that damn Esterbrook," sighed Adam. "He was too careless. I tried to warn him, but he wouldn't listen. And when the authorities took him down, he nearly brought INtREPUS down with him. That _bastard_! We almost lost one of our major front companies. It could take _years_ before we can rebuild the company's tarnished reputation, not to mention recuperating from the financial losses."

Adam brooded in silence, tightening his fists. He was known for his temper, which was, as Quentin theorized, a by-product of his unparalleled determination and ambition. And it was not an explosive fury he nurtured, but a fiery wrath that simmered just underneath his surface, the pressure building until it was unleashed upon those unfortunate enough to be in his vicinity. Knowing this all too well, Quentin thought it best to let his associate's anger subside somewhat before speaking.

"As it so happens," he began, "I was reading an article in the paper on Esterbrook's downfall this morning. You'll never guess who caught him."

"Who?" asked Adam, his curiosity piqued.

"An FBI Agent named OliviaDunham."

Adam stared at his comrade incredulously for a second before chuckling bitterly.

"Well, I'll be damned," he said. "That's James' daughter, isn't it?"

"Yes, I believe so," replied Quentin.

"I remember seeing her when she was just a baby. I went to visit James and his wife shortly after she was born. She had her father's face, wouldn't you know."

Adam exhaled a long, hoarse sigh before continuing.

"Just when I thought I would never hear from them again, they come right back to strike us once more. It almost as though it's in their _blood_ to cause us no end of trouble. James was a good man, and he's served us well, but he's a retired colonel now; he left the game years ago. And his brother, that _traitor_... Can you _believe_ that we had a spy in the OWS all that time?"

Quentin shook his head as the memories resurfaced.

"And now we have a new generation of them walking around," continued Adam. "I'll be happy if I never hear the word _Dunham_ mentioned again for the rest of my life."

Heather's vitals were starting to fluctuate, and she moaned in persistent pain, cheeks glistening with tears. The men in the room scurried about to various monitors and equipment, administering additional drugs in an attempt to keep her stable.

"All this worrying can't be good for your health, Adam," assured Quentin. "Look on the bright side. We're in the process of finalizing the negotiations of our deal with the Vaughan Corporation, and I've received word that our new research facility in Argentina is almost complete. Plus, I have a feeling that this new toy of ours will undoubtedly rake in a pretty penny. These are all but minor setbacks. _Sumus reges hac tabula latruncularia._"

Adam nodded in agreement, his anger receding to the edges of his spirit. He appreciated Quentin's glass half-full philosophy and his often sound counsel. And yet, while he was undoubtedly a competent member of the Old World Society, Adam found his calm, collected demeanour, even in the face of dire circumstances, to be somewhat irritating at times. He could never quite tell what was going on behind those dreaming, ocean-blue eyes and stoic visage; in fact, his stare was almost disturbing in its ambiguity. But if there was one thing that Adam was certain of, however, it was Quentin's unflinching loyalty to their organization. Appeased, he discontinued that train of thought, redirecting his attention instead to the experiment at hand.

The woman on the bed was now seizing, shaking uncontrollably in her restraints. The scientists travelled back and forth as her vitals spiked to dangerous levels. Thin wisps of vapour started to rise from her skin, and her eyes rolled into her head from the excruciating pain. Crackling sounds could be heard while the scientists yelled commands to each other, trying to keep the situation under their control. At that moment, Heather's back arched as a couple of electric arcs shot out from her body, her mouth wide open as she silently cried out for the love of her life. The short-lived arcs connected with surrounding equipment, causing the scientists to flinch back at the shower of sparks. She then slouched back, her hair frizzed and her skin burnt and ruptured, dead.

Adam and Quentin shielded their eyes from the near-blinding flash in the observation window, and once the smoke had cleared, they were disappointed to see that he experiment had failed.

"Ah, damn it!" muttered Adam.

He sped off, leaving Quentin behind, not bothering to see if he followed. There was a door not too far down the hallway, a door Adam promptly entered. It gave way to a small antechamber that led to the experiment room proper. He swung the door open; an acrid smoke still hung in the air, and one of the scientists was busy quelling a flaming console with a fire extinguisher. Adam addressed the other, who was waving what smoke remained in the room with his hand, coughing as he did.

"What the hell happened in here?"

"The test subject responded well to the treatment," the man explained. "But her body wasn't able to store the charge, and everything her body built-up was expelled."

"Well, at least we're making progress," noted Adam.

"Yes, excellent progress. Now it's just a matter of finding a way to have the body properly accumulate and store the charge."

"Of course, of course," approved Adam. "Keep me updated on your progress."

Adam's background was never in science; he was only interested in the results.

"Yes, sir," nodded the scientist.

"Oh, and be sure to clean up this mess, will you?" wavered Adam as he turned to leave the room.

He returned to the corridor to find Quentin pacing slowly in a small circle, speaking on his phone. As he neared him, Quentin terminated the call with a satisfied smile.

"Good new, I hope?" asked Adam.

"Hoffman just called," said Quentin. "The demonstration at Frankfurt went smoothly."

"Is that right?" said Adam, pleased. "I suppose we can go ahead with the transaction, then."

"What do you think of this _Apotheosis_?" asked Quentin. "I haven't heard of them before they contacted us with their offer. I'm not too sure we should place so much trust in them."

"They're relatively new to the scene, as it would seem," said Adam as the two longed the corridor. "They've done a few noteworthy things here and there, mostly in South and Latin America. I wasn't aware of them or their accomplishments either before Hoffman filled me in. I can understand your suspicion, however; ours is a life of many foes and far fewer friends. But you and I both know that they pose no threat to us, so we might as well take advantage of their offer. Who knows, a bone-dissolving gas might prove to come in handy someday."

"You know, I've never really liked Hoffman," commented Quentin. "There's something profoundly unsettling about that man."

"You shouldn't be so quick in dismissing him, Quentin. Alfred Hoffman has been with the Old World Society for a long time. And he's a very dangerous man with less-than-conservative views, so that's all the more reason you should be thankful that he chooses to be on _our_ side."

The duo traversed the labyrinthine tangle of corridors, the layout of which they knew by heart, making their way a few floors above, where they wound up in the basement level of Saint Joseph's Hospital. Through the main lobby they then passed, exiting the building to face the whispering wind of an afternoon Seattle.

"Tell Hoffman to arrange a meeting with the representatives of Apotheosis," ordered Adam as they halted outside the entrance. "I'm giving the go-ahead to proceed with the transaction as planned."

"As you wish," acknowledged Quentin. "I'll be seeing you, then. _Viribus orbis antiqui vobíscum_."

"_Et vos quoque_," replied Adam. "Send your wife my regards."

The two parted ways, members of a society older than the nation whose soil they currently walked upon, an ancient order that would soon hold a slight advantage over those that also trod the ever-shifting terrain of the Silent War.

* * *

><p><em>AN: For those who don't remember, Conrad Moreau is the Black Market Werecupine virus handler in episode 1.13, and Alfred Hoffman is the Bischoff-hating immortal Nazi scientist from 2.13. The latter has a role to play in coming chapters, so it should be interesting. ;)_


	8. Chapter 7: The Hand

Chapter 7: The Hand

How's the coffee?" asked Alfred Hoffman, sipping on a cup of Earl Grey tea.

Facing him was Julian Klein of Apotheosis, who slurped his black coffee as he scanned the newspaper spread before him. They found themselves seated that morning at one of tables placed just outside a small pastry shop in Offenbach. It was a quaint establishment, comfortably crowded and with a pleasant ambiance, mostly due to the hospitality of the family that has been running the business for generations.

"It's very good, actually," agreed Klein, responding to Hoffman's query.

"As a young boy, I once came to Frankfurt to visit my uncle Sebastian, who worked there in a steel mill at the time," recounted Hoffman. "He took me to this very shop, and I found their pastries so good that I've made sure to come back here whenever I happen to be in town. The chocolate éclairs are _especially _delicious."

He then smiled that wide, charismatic grin that put Klein on edge. There was something off about the bespectacled man, thought Klein; he could feel a faint sense of predatory malice seeping through the man's friendly exterior. But Klein made a conscious effort to suppress his intimidation, pursuing the perusal of news articles with calculated nonchalance. After all, he was dealing with the representative of a powerful operating entity, and did not want to show any sign of weakness. In an effort to stave the anxiety, he steered the conversation in a different direction.

"Looks like we're a hit," said Klein, pointing to an article in the newspaper. "The government is covering up the demonstration as an ordinary terrorist attack, though – it says here that they suspect the weapon was a nerve agent, probably hydrogen cyanide."

"Is that so?" said Hoffman. "Well, we can't really blame them. After all, the discovery that a terrorist organization has created a bone-dissolving substance would unsettle the masses more than necessary. Still, it would have made such an interesting headline. Speaking of which, how exactly _does _your weapon work?"

"Uh, well, we've designed the compound so that it targets specific traits upon release," explained Klein. "In this case, the compound breaks down the mineral component of the bone at an accelerated rate, causing the collapse of the skeletal structure."

"Targeting specific traits, eh?" said Hoffman, visibly impressed. "_Interesting_..."

The two men returned to silent contemplations for some time. Klein contented himself to stare out at the street as people went about the commencement of their day. He was finishing the last of his cup when Hoffman retracted from his own reverie and leaned forward on the table, hands clasped.

"Let's talk business now, shall we?" he said. "The people whom I represent are highly pleased with your performance, and are interested in your proposition. You have proved to us the value of your product, and we are therefore willing to accept your offer."

"Excellent," said Klein. "I'm glad you've seen the light."

"Indeed," agreed Hoffman. "Now, listen carefully to the terms of the agreement. You will provide us thirty canisters of the weapon, as well as the formula for future replication. In exchange, we will pay you the set price of two million dollars, as well as an extra five hundred thousand as recognition of your professionalism and devotion to the cause; consider this a little boost for your fledgling organization, courtesy of the Old World Society's generosity. The place of meeting will be an old hangar just outside the city of Philadelphia in the United States. My people will escort your people to the site of the transaction once they arrive in America. Do you accept these terms, Mister Klein?"

Klein nodded.

"Good. Here is the address, as well as the date and time the exchange will take place."

Hoffman scribbled the information on a small sheet with an exquisite pen before folding the sheet and sliding it across the table. Klein reviewed it with satisfaction, tucking it into his pocket.

"I'm glad that's settled," said the representative of Apotheosis. "Things are starting to heat up, you know, so now's the perfect time to start investing in the good stuff. And who knows, maybe this little arrangement of ours will lead to greater things between our two organizations."

"You shouldn't get too ahead of yourself, Mister Klein," warned Hoffman. "This is merely a transaction between two parties; nothing more, nothing less. In this battle for survival, whom we choose to cooperate with is entirely dependent on what suits our purposes. Never forget that."

And he smiled once again, a smile that put Klein back in his place, whose initial eagerness quickly faltered to be replaced by submission and slight embarrassment. He was naive, thought Hoffman, perhaps a bit _too _naive. He reminded him of himself as a young man, a swashbuckling idealist who dreamed of a perfect world. And he supposed he still retained some of that idealism, as he still envisioned a world where the Reich would arise once again, and the German people would prosper as they did in days of old. He knew that day would come eventually, and it was now only a matter of biding his time.

Smiling at the thought, he continued his discourse.

"I should also inform you that I have been tasked to inspect the shipment of the weapon before it is transferred overseas," he said. "I'm sure that this can be arranged."

"Oh, of course," said Klein. "Once the shipment has been prepared, we'll contact you to schedule a meeting."

"Good, good. I don't mean to be so intrusive, but I hope you understand that we have to take the necessary precautions..."

Hoffman trailed off as he felt an increasing sense of alarm form inside his mind. His glance shifted to a man seated a few tables away, who kept looking up at them as he read the newspaper he held up. Hoffman was puzzled at first, but he tensed as he began to understand the intentions of the stranger, who now stood up and was walking towards their table.

_Watch out._

At that moment, Klein, curious to see what was holding Hoffman transfixed, stretched to look behind him, only to see a man reaching into his coat.

"Get down!" yelled Hoffman as the man drew his weapon.

With surprising speed, Hoffman drew his own pistol – a Walther P38 – and shot the man through the chest just as he outstretched his arm, and he fell to the ground with a grunt, clutching his bleeding wound. The clang of firearms sent people fleeing in a loud clamour of screams and panicked wails. Hoffman went to help Klein up from the ground, who had previously ducked out of the way as the shots were fired. Once to his feet, the two hurriedly escaped into a nearby alley, not wanting to linger at the scene any longer. They eventually came to a halt after a few winding turns, panting heavily.

"Are you alright, Mister Klein?"

"Yes... I'm fine."

There they stayed, Klein sitting against the wall and Hoffman resting one hand on his knee and the other on the opposing building, both taking the time to recuperate. As they did so, Hoffman processed what had just occurred. He recalled the man as he approached them with hawk-like intent. The man wasn't aiming at him, he realized; he was aiming at Klein. Who would hire an assassin to shoot Klein down in broad daylight? He had no idea. But whatever the circumstances surrounding the attempted hit, Hoffman's suspicions of Klein began to grow, for one did not become the target of assassination without reason.

Once they had caught their breath, they continued deeper into the city, eventually splitting up to pursue different routes and lose any eyes that might have been following them.

* * *

><p>January did not have to wait long.<p>

The Arbiter had been standing on the beach for almost half an hour, an hour and a half after issuing his message back in Berlin. Poised rigid upon the shore, with arms limp at his side, he observed a sailboat in the distance as it bobbed at the whims of the oceanic currents, the Rock of Gibraltar casting a behemoth shadow over both him and the nautical craft. It had been two weeks since the Irregularity came into being, and only now was he able to spare some time. Without the Overseer's guidance, the Witnesses were forced doubled their efforts, carrying out their duties with exceeding caution, as they could not afford to make any additional mistakes.

The sound of sand shifting from the saunter of feet announced December's arrival. He came to place himself at his fellow Arbiter's side.

"I am glad you could make it under such short notice," said January. "I hope that coming here is not too inconvenient for you."

"There is no need to worry," assured December, checking his pocket watch. "I cannot stay for long, however."

"Then let us not stall any longer; there are many things to discuss."

Another wave came to rest upon the beach's edge.

"Judging by the urgency of your message," said December, "I presume that this concerns the Irregularity."

"It does," said January. "As I am sure you are aware, the Hand we have sent four days ago has failed to correct Julian Klein."

"An unfortunate development," noted December. "Now we will have to send another."

"But that is why I sought council with you," explained January. "It is too late to send another Hand. Since Klein has escaped his meeting with Alfred Hoffman alive, it is highly probable that he knows the time and place of the impending weapons sale, and has undoubtedly informed Apotheosis by now."

December's head swiveled to his colleague.

"Why was I not informed earlier?" he asked.

"When the Hand did not report to us following the assignment, we had to dispatch Proxies to ascertain the details of the situation. I only learned of the outcome of the event this morning."

"What of our Proxy liaison in the Old World Society?"

"Quentin has confirmed my suspicions," stated January. "The Old World Society has decided to go ahead with the sale as planned."

Both fell into a period of reflection; already they were visualizing the failed assassination's possible outcomes, and none of them bode well.

"We must formulate a solution quickly if we are to repair the Irregularity once and for all," affirmed December. "Alas, there exists no obvious course of action to take. At this point, I am hesitant to act upon any plan, lest it cause any further complications. How are we to fix this without the Overseer's guidance?"

January stared at the sand surrounding his feet, each grain being meticulously analyzed. Upon further contemplation, he realized that none of their usual tactics would serve their purpose this time. Cross-referencing millennia of experiences, an idea eventually came to him, and he sat on it for awhile before sharing it.

"I think we should approach the problem from a different angle," he suggested at length. "We were made the Overseer's Arbiters, and it is our duty to carry out his will in his absence. Consequently, so long as he is gone, it is we who occupy the position of Overseer. In this light, perhaps we should ask ourselves what _he _would do in this situation."

"I cannot say," said December, pondering his colleague's unusual question. "It is abundantly clear that we must find a way to eliminate Klein, for his continued survival will eventually lead to the downfall of the Old World Society. And the continuation of this organization is vital, as it plays an important role in the Silent War. This much the Overseer has made clear."

"But the probability that Klein has ascertained the location of the trade increases every second that elapses after his meeting with Hoffman," rebutted January. "It would serve no purpose to eliminate Klein at this point. We must find subtler means to alert the Old World Society of the bigger picture at play."

"Yes, but what way can there be? The Non-Interference Protocol is in effect, so to inform them directly is prohibited."

"Perhaps we should lift it, then," said January solemnly. "Since the Overseer is absent, do we not inherit his authority, and by extension, the power to carry out such an action? It would serve only as a precautionary measure, of course, and it would only last as long as it takes to resolve this situation."

"...Very well," conceded December. "But we should only get involved as a last resort, should the need arise."

"Agreed," nodded January. "Now, it is simply a matter of determining how to alert the Old World with the less direct involvement possible."

The two retreated into the recesses of their minds as another silent brainstorming session began. They processed the variables with great speed, extrapolating and crosschecking hundreds of scenarios per minute, hoping to find some insight buried within it all. After many minutes of this, December spoke.

"Of course," he said. "Out of all the members of the Old World, who is the one who has interacted with Klein the most?"

"Alfred Hoffman," answered January.

"We have been watching him for a long time," said December, "and he has proven prone to forming suspicions about those he deals with. What if we were to capitalize on that trait, further fuel his suspicions until he has a reason to pursue them, thereby unraveling the truth?"

"...Yes," said January. "That just might work. The probabilities would be in our favour, and the degree of involvement required on our part is minimal. It is a solid plan, December. I must admit that I am impressed."

"Thank you," said December, satisfied with his performance. "It is decided, then. We will seek to rouse Hoffman's suspicions of Klein and Apotheosis in the hopes that he discovers the truth."

"I will assign Aube Division agents tend to this task," stated January. "In the meantime, I think it would be best to have some Crépuscule Division agents present at the site of the exchange so that they may ensure that it proceeds without hindrance. And if our plan fails before that time, they will act as a safeguard should things go awry."

"Let us hope that it will not come to that," said December. "I will relay the plan to the rest of my agents, as well as inform them of the indefinite lifting of the Non-Interference Protocol."

"And I will do the same."

The Sun peeked past the Rock's cliff face, its beams scintillating on the waters of the Strait; it was almost as though it was giving its seal of approval on the plan of the Arbiters. With renewed optimism, the two Witnesses left the Rock of Gibraltar, one shortly after the other, returning to their respective Sectors via the Roads Less Traveled By; but even the prospect that they may yet succeed could not completely erase the shadow of doubt that perched in the back of their minds.

For in the next few weeks awaited the greatest trial the Witnesses have ever faced.


	9. Chapter 8: Calling All Vigilantes

Chapter 8: Calling to All Vigilantes

The Men in Black have been spotted regularly since the late 1940's. Said to be government agents or extra-terrestrial entities in disguise, they typically adorn black suits and sunglasses, and tend to behave in odd and peculiar ways, seemingly unfamiliar with typical human customs. They know much, but say little, and keep a close eye on those who know more than they're supposed to in the interest of keeping UFO sightings and alien or governmental conspiracies under wraps.

Dan was already familiar with this popular phenomenon in conspiracy lore, but he had decided to research the topic in further detail ever since his second encounter with his Man in Black-esque stalker. He thought that perhaps he could find some insight as to why he would be of any interest to this shadowy group, but to his dismay, he did not find any pieces of information that were not variations of what he already knew. Perhaps Dan was sticking his nose where it didn't belong, that the Man in Black was trying to keep the First Wave invasion a secret. However, the Men in Black usually confronted their targets directly and harassed them into keeping silent about what they saw, whereas Dan's own Number One Fan merely watched him, observed him. There was also the possibility that he was something else altogether.

Whoever that man might be, though, or on whose behalf he worked for, Dan started think that the First Wave might prove to be the least of his worries.

The taxi came to rest at the curb. Upon exiting, he remained on the sidewalk for a moment, gathering his bearings, and when the cab departed for its next destination, Dan began his trek anew. A week after the reconnaissance mission, the Watchdog had contacted him through Galaxy Truth, telling him that he has found a handful of recruits for their resistance initiative. He had then proceeded to host a meeting for the members of the Liberation Front, which was to be held at his apartment. Dan was very pleased with this development, and made his way there with restrained excitement, almost trembling with the thought that his vision was slowly manifesting into reality.

The elevator doors gave way to the third floor of the apartment complex Dan had entered. His head scanned left and right for the place which he sought, at last finding apartment 314 near the end of the next corridor. He remained in front of the door, brushing down his coat and taking a deep breath in an attempt to calm his accelerating heartbeat before knocking thrice. Moments later, the door opened and the Watchdog came to greet him, wearing a _Rage Against The Machine_ shirt and dark, faded jeans.

"Hey, man!" he said, clasping Dan's hand. "Come on in! We've all been waiting for you."

Dan stepped inside, and Gary closed the door behind them. After placing his coat on a hangar inside the closet, Gary went down the small corridor and turned left into the living room, where an exchange was taking place.

"...and there they were," said a voice, "worshipping a giant statue of a _freakin' owl_ in the middle of the damn forest!"

"Holy crap, dude!" said another voice that sounded suspiciously like Spock.

"Pretty messed, right? I was going to take a few snapshots of the scene, but I couldn't even bring myself to move my goddamn arms; it was like my entire body was paralyzed in fear. I'm tellin' ya, I ain't never seen anything so disturbin' in my entire life. Then, all of a sudden, my buddy says to me that he thought someone spotted us – he said it might have been Reagan, but it was dark, so I couldn't be sure. Then we bolted straight outta there as fast as we freakin' could."

Dan stood at the entrance, collecting himself before entering the room. Once his mental preparation was over, he proceeded to place himself at the entryway. Upon seeing the newcomer, everyone in the room fell silent and veered their heads to him. Of the four individuals present, Dan recognized Spock, who waved at him from his camp chair in front of the central coffee table, and Gary, who was currently taking his seat at the lofty chair in the far corner of the room.

Taking up the other two occupied places were men new to Dan. In the second of three extra chairs sat a grim-looking man who held a lit cigarette between his fingers. He had much stubble on his face, and his hair was short and styled with gel; his attire consisted of a _Chimaira_ hood and camouflage-patterned cargo pants. And on one side of the couch was an older man, probably in his forties, with a thick, poorly kempt beard streaked with a bit of grey and lengthy hair tied back into a pony tail. He was a bit large, and wore a tie-die shirt in which his belly was a prominent feature, as well as a pair of unseasonable cargo shorts.

Dan remained at the room's periphery, taking it all in. He was expecting more people to show up; that there were only two recruits was a rather underwhelming reality. Consciously suppressing his disappointment, he breached the circumference of the circle of chairs to seat himself between Spock and the cigarette-smoking fellow when Gary spoke.

"Everyone, I'd like you to meet Crow," he said. "Crow, this is Enigma..."

The man with the cigarette performed a small salute.

"...and this is Druid."

"Pleased to meet ya!" responded the bearded man, waving from the couch.

Dan recognized the Druid's gruff voice as the one who was recounting the previous anecdote. And even though he had never met either of them before, Dan found that their names somehow suited them rather nicely.

"Our third volunteer in the kitchen," explained Gary. "They'll be with us shortly."

Dan sat back, assessing the situation. There were six people attending the first ever Liberation Front meeting. Of potentially thousands of Truth-Seekers in the online community, that meant that only three had responded to the call. The turnout was less than Dan had anticipated; he was hoping that they would at least be a dozen in number. As things currently stood, he was rather certain that six people would not be enough to effectively combat the First Wave.

Alas, he had no other choice but to shrug it off, ultimately resigning to work with what he had instead. After all, he rationalized, three was better than none at all. And he reminded himself that this was but the beginning; others would surely add themselves to the group as they made a name for themselves through their exploits.

If they their efforts amounted to anything at all, that is.

"Now that everyone's here, we might as well get started," said Gary. "Crow, since this whole thing was your idea, I'll let you lead."

Everyone directed their attention to Dan, who was taken aback at being forcefully thrust into the limelight.

"Uh...hey, guys" he started. "First off, um, I guess I'd like to thank everyone for coming. As I'm sure you're all aware at this point, the Liberation Front is a civilian resistance project aiming to combat the threat of the First Wave... You guys _do_ know about the First Wave, right?"

"Fortunately for us, these guys are veteran Truth-Seekers," explained Gary. "They've been following the First Wave phenomenon for years."

"Good," said Dan, relieved. "Uh, anyway, the goal of the Liberation Front is to take down the First Wave by systematically attacking weak points in their foundation so that they collapse under their own weight. Are there any questions so far?"

The rest of the party neglected to speak, which Dan took as a sign to continue.

"In that case, you'll all be happy to know that we can already get started on our first mission. There's a place out in Watertown that the Shapeshifters are using to produce things they call Titans. I have reason to believe that these Titans play a vital role in the plans of the First Wave. Therefore, our objective is to infiltrate their facility, find the Titans, and figure out a way to destroy them."

"How do you figure we go about accomplishing this?" asked the Druid.

"I'm not quite sure yet," admitted Dan. "I was kind of hoping that we could form a plan as a group. Any ideas?"

The group stared collectively into space with serious expressions, writing rough drafts of possible courses of action in their minds.

"I say we apply brute force," said Enigma, exhaling smoke into the air. "I can easily procure firearms for everyone here. We'll take them out as we go, forcing our way to the heart of the compound. It's extremely dangerous, obviously, but it seems a lot less risky than finding a way to infiltrate the place relying on stealth alone."

"We might as well start drinkin' cyanide punch at that rate!" refuted the Druid. "I think you're forgettin' that not only are we outnumbered, but that the Shapeshifters are not _quite_ human. They're stronger, faster, and more resilient than we are, not to mention that they probably have far superior technology, so our survival rate is pretty low if you ask me. Why don't we just have one team create a diversion to keep 'em busy while the other sneaks in and does the job?"

"Well, what kind of diversion would you suggest we use?" asked Enigma. "These guys aren't stupid, and they don't screw around either. They'll kill us without hesitation if they have any reason to suspect that something's up. Nah, we need to hit 'em _fast_, and we need to hit 'em _hard_."

"Druid does have a point, though," said Gary. "It would probably be best if we can find a way to get in and destroy the Titans before the shifters become aware of our presence there. What do you guys think?"

Dan, having opted to follow the discussion instead of thinking up his own ideas, remained silent at the Watchdog's address, whereas Spock took the opportunity to voice his own concerns.

"I'm leaning towards the Druid's idea," said Spock, stroking his goatee. "Crow and I have faced them before, and I can attest to the danger they pose in combat. It seems more prudent to sneak in rather than to engage them directly. However, that raises another issue. What are we supposed to do once we reach the Titan storage area?"

"We blow it up, of course."

The group turned to the entryway, where a woman holding a plate of potato chips and a sandwich now stood. She appeared to be the youngest one in the group, no older than a university student by Dan's estimates. Her face was splashed lightly with freckles and framed by locks of straight auburn hair, which was rolled up into a bun behind her head. She brushed off crumbs from her magenta shirt before addressing Dan.

"You must be Crow," she deduced. "I'm Polaris."

Polaris bowed slightly as she presented herself. She then took a seat on the other side of the couch beside the Druid before proceeding to devour her overstuffed sandwich.

"Blow it up, huh?" said Enigma.

"From the sound of things, these Titans are probably real big," explained Polaris, voice muffled by food, "so it's best not to take any chances and bring as much explosives as we can."

"I suppose this means you have experience with explosives, then," inferred Dan.

"My dad's a demolition worker," she said, "and he taught me everything he knows. I can easily make homemade explosives with enough raw materials. "

"Excellent," said Spock. "But we still have to find a way to actually get_ inside_ the compound."

Gary, whose squinting eyes have been staring intently at the coffee table for all that time, finally spoke.

"...Hey, Crow," he began. "Didn't you say that the shifters use a password system?"

"Uh, yeah," nodded Dan.

"In that case, why don't we just _walk_ in?"

The group fixed the Watchdog, as though unable to process the total absurdity of the idea.

"Only a shifter could possibly know the password," he continued to explain. "And they look exactly like us, which means that we look exactly like them, you know? I say we, like, have two of us pass off as shifters, enter the facility, make them believe they're legit by using the in-depth knowledge we have on the First Wave, secure a passage for the rest of the team so that we can place the explosives at the Titan site, and then hightail the hell out of there before the entire place blows up."

The Watchdog folded his arms and gave a triumphant smile, evidently pleased with the brilliance of his plan. Dan chuckled at the delicious irony of the proposition. Fighting fire with fire; they wouldn't know what hit them.

"I like it," said Enigma, grinning. "I suppose all that's left is to decide who's going in."

"This is my plan, so I'm going to take the risk," said Gary. "Who's coming with me?"

"...I will."

They all turned to Dan in unison.

"Are you sure you want to do this, Crow?" asked Spock with some concern. "You don't have to, you know."

"No, it's fine," assured Dan. "I _want_ to do this. Besides, who's going to pick the locks for the rest of us?"

"Alright," conceded Spock, albeit not too happily.

He wasn't quite sure he was even prepared for this, but Dan could not pass on the opportunity. He could think of no better way of bringing them down then by making them believe that their downfall was orchestrated by the hands of their brethren. Of course, the mission was the primary motivator behind Dan's decision to volunteer for the task, and he knew that its success rested upon the authenticity of his performance; he also felt responsible for the entire group in a way, seeing as the Liberation Front was his brainchild. Still, he could not deny that the vindictive fire stirring within him wasn't influencing his decision-making process.

"Great," said Gary. "I guess everything's been decided. Crow and I will pass off as shifters. Polaris will make the explosives, and the rest of you will break in and help place them, as well as serving as muscle in the event of confrontation. Does anyone else have anything to say?"

"I guess we should get the obvious stuff out of the way while we're at it," said Enigma. "So listen up, folks. What we're about to do here is extremely dangerous. By doing this, you are all risking your lives. We'd also be doing loads of illegal things. So if anyone has any problems with any of this, feel free to leave now."

None of them moved an inch, much to Dan's relief.

"Right on!" said the Druid. "I guess the next step is to work out the details in our plan. Hey, Watchdog, got a map of the place by any chance?"

"Good idea," said Polaris. "I'd need to know how big the place is so I can gather enough materials."

"I can help you out with that," said Spock. "I've scoped the area, so I have a pretty good idea of the dimensions. Might even be able to pull city blueprints and schematics online to see what tunnel systems might be lying down there."

"Alright, you guys get on that," said Dan. "Watchdog, we should probably talk about our act."

"Agreed," said Gary. "Enigma, you should stay too; I want to know how you can contribute to the mission weapons-wise."

The Liberation Front went to work, with Spock leading the way to the kitchen in search of pen and paper while Dan remained in the living room with Gary and Enigma to analyze how Shapeshifters behave. As he did so, he began to reflect on Enigma's previous warning. This was the last stop on the road on which one could not look back. He had been thinking about the journey that lay ahead of him for some time, but he nonetheless took the time to weigh the prospects with much thought. Was he Daniel Thompson, law-abiding, tax-paying citizen of Boston? Or was he in fact Crow, protector of the free world and campaigner against the forces of evil?

By the end of the night, as everyone left the Watchdog's apartment, he had found his answer.


	10. Chapter 9: Mind over Matter

Chapter 9: Mind over Matter

Green, green, green, red.

There it was again, this time nestled among rows of apples sitting in an open market stand.

Such occurrences had become so commonplace that Kenneth Miller barely registered them at that point, his brain acknowledging the pattern of colours to be as much a part of the scenery as the buildings that unfolded either side of him from within the taxi cab he currently occupied. But ever since previous day's incident in the lab, he had begun to notice the colours everywhere he went, the once passive ability he had possessed for the last twenty-six years reawakened to a clarity the likes of which he had not known since childhood.

In a woman's freshly-bought bouquet of flowers, there was a blood-red rose with three green leaves jutting from the stem.

It seemed that he could not go five minutes without seeing something that reminded him of the pattern. Yet, he was already beginning to phase out the pattern's prevalence to mere background noise, a skill he had acquired as a child when he first began to notice it. He remembered the day he first became aware of the colours. He must have been three or four at the time, playing a game of jacks by himself in the driveway. The ball bounced high, and his small infant hands swiped a handful of the scattered jacks in a deft, singular motion. He unclenched his hand to see three green jacks and one of red. It was a strangely alluring sequence, and when he eventually ceased staring at it to play another round, Kenneth recalled that was disappointed when he did not get the same hand.

A man riding a red bicycle passed a row of trees in front of a nearby park.

He had been musing on the pattern's significance ever since Test Subject Three's death. Processing what scarce information was available to him, he managed to make a few logical inferences. That the pattern frequently reoccurred in nature implied that it held greater significance. He theorized that it might be some mathematical constant that had yet to be discovered, with the circumference of perfect circles and the Golden Ratio as its kin. Then there was the frequency that changed Mike LeRoi; the pattern was quite clearly related to it, judging from the message the mouse imparted to Kenneth upon its death.

And last, but not least, there was him. He could see the pattern, so there was obviously some innate quality differentiating him from the rest, something that made him special. In fact, now that he thought about it, the game of jacks in that 1957 summer afternoon was one of his earliest memories, perhaps even his first. What did it mean, then, that he has perceived a pattern the rest were oblivious to for the entirety of his life? He couldn't quite say.

A trio of olive green awnings hung from the face of a Greek restaurant, followed immediately after by a smoke shop's burgundy veranda.

With such little data, he was not in the least bit surprised when he came face to face with the inevitable impasse. A random pattern of colours, a lab rat transformed by an electromagnetic frequency, and a man smack dab in the middle of it all. That's all he had, a few flimsy variables in an equation he did not possess. But all equations can be solved, he figured; it was only a matter of time before it would reveal its parts to him. In the meantime, he decided that he would seek to define the rest of the problem's variables, as any physicist would. There was nothing else he could do at that point other than to let the matter go, and that option was ruled out by that insatiable curiosity that drove him and all other scientists forward on their eternal quest for what lay beyond.

What better place to start this quest, he thought, than at the Harvard Lab.

Doctor Bishop had called him late last night, asking him to come to the lab the next morning with a certain sense of urgency. As it would seem, a surprising turn of events unfolded last night during the autopsy of Test Subject Three. After paying his fare, he entered the grounds of the university, making haste along the stone pathways that divided the Yard while wondering what circumstances could possibly warrant his unscheduled summoning.

"Hey, Kenneth! Wait up!"

Carla intercepted him from a perpendicular walkway. They stopped at the confluence of the paths, with Carla taking a moment to catch her breath.

"Aren't we in a hurry?" chided Kenneth.

"I kind of slept longer than I should have, so I got here as fast as I could," she explained, slightly embarrassed.

"Do you know what's going on?"

"No, I don't. I guess it has to do with the autopsy, and I tried getting more out of Doctor Bishop when he called me last night, but he said that he wanted to wait until everyone was at the lab before saying anything else."

"No point in standing around, then," said Kenneth. "We should get going."

The pair traversed campus to reach the Kresge Building. Once there, they descended to the basement level, breaching the doors at corridor's end to enter Walter Bishop's laboratory. Clamour resounded from the recesses of the lab, and moments later, out came Walter, who, assisted by Bruce and Alice, was busy transporting boxes of equipment to other areas of the lab.

"Good morning!" said Walter, noticing the new arrivals. "I'll be with you shortly."

He then disappeared into a dark corner of the lab, leaving Kenneth and Carla by themselves. They had no other choice but to bide their time; Kenneth played percussionist with random objects on a table while Carla proceeded to read an article about dolphins from the most recent National Geographic issue. Not five minutes passed before Simon showed up, completing the lab assistant roster.

"Soooo," asked Simon, approaching his colleagues, "what do you think our good friend Mikey has in store for us this time?"

"I don't know," replied Kenneth. "But whatever it is, I suppose we're about to find out."

They didn't have to wait long. The transportation of equipment completed, Walter emerged into the main expanse of the lab, tailed closely by Bruce and Alice.

"Excellent!" said Walter, clasping his hands. "Now that everyone has arrived, we can begin."

Walter then placed his hands on the railing of the elevated walkway before his assistants.

"As you've no doubt guessed, the reason I have called you in today concerns a rather intriguing development that has occurred last night," he began. "Yesterday, Mister Murray and Miss Brenner assisted me in the autopsy of Test Subject Three, with the goal of ascertaining the nature of the specimen's transformation following its exposure to the electromagnetic frequency. It was during this autopsy that the strangest of things occurred."

"What happened?" asked Simon. "Did he blow up or something?"

"Well," said Alice, "not _exactly_."

Kenneth exchanged glances of perplexity with Carla and Simon. Alice looked to Walter, who nodded, prompting her to continue.

"After you guys left yesterday, we prepped the body for an autopsy. It was going fine for awhile, but the body suddenly started to vibrate faster and faster until it just _disintegrated _intolittle bits of yellowish light that floated in the air for a few seconds before fading away entirely."

Bruce proceeded to simulate a small explosion with expanding hands, complete with appropriate noises and further lending credence to Alice's tale; the display would have been humorous if the absurdity of the recounted events were not superseded by the reality of it all.

"Did you guys find out _why_ it disintegrated?" asked Kenneth, cross-armed.

"No, not yet," admitted Walter. "And I don't suppose we ever will, seeing as we no longer have a body to examine. However, I _do_ have a few theories. And if I'm correct, the implications could potentially change the way we as humans view consciousness."

Doctor Bishop made his way to the blackboard, his assistants following suit. He selected a piece of chalk before beginning to expound on his ideas with the multitude of animated gestures and the scribbling of diagrams and poorly drawn figurines that typically accompanied his scientific narrations.

"Now, I theorize that our experiment was, in fact, a success," he started. "With a combination of nootropic drugs and exposure to a specific band of electromagnetic frequencies, the specimen's bioelectric field – and by extension, its mental capacities – were effectively amplified. However, it would seem that the specimen's brain was unable to reconcile with this newly-acquired awareness, and it died of cardiac arrest from the shock of it moments later."

What an unfortunate end, thought Kenneth. He had trouble imagining the enormous cognitive dissonance Mike must have experienced in its final moments of lucidity. At least he had enough time to relay his final message.

"Due to the amplification of the specimen's field," continued Walter, "its molecular structure became more energized, and therefore unstable. It was so unstable, in fact, that the atomic bonds could not possibly have remained coherent for as long as it did. Therefore, there must have been some element that was holding the specimen's body together in this heightened vibrational state."

"Consciousness," clued Kenneth.

"Very impressive, Mister Miller," said Walter with a smile.

Kenneth was pleased with the acclaim, even though he didn't think he was as clever as Doctor Bishop made him out to be; after all, Walter did preface his presentation with talk of the notion.

"Indeed," continued the scientist, "I believe it was _consciousness _that was maintaining molecular cohesion. The electromagnetic frequencies caused the brain's fundamental configuration to be altered, becoming more complex to compensate for these sudden, induced changes in the organism's molecular structure. And, since the brain houses consciousness, the latter also grew more complex, more advanced. But it was not the frequencies alone that did this. The drugs we administered changed the specimen's chemical balance in a way that his body reacted to the frequencies the way it did; I further posit that they helped counteract the great strain the transition must have placed on it."

Walter pointed to his shoddily-drawn representation of Michael LeRoi on the blackboard.

"At this point, the brain – and by extension, the _mind_ – became the regulator of the body's amplified bioelectric potential, distributing all this excess energy equally throughout the system and holding every highly-energized atom in its place. So when the specimen died, there was nothing left to hold its body together. The atomic bonds gradually weakened from the accelerating strain until they decayed completely, and its body disintegrated into an atomic liberation of pure thermal and luminous _energy_ – an event some of us had the opportunity to witness firsthand."

Silence filled the lab. The team took the time to digest all the information they had just received, working out the kinks in Walter's set of ideas in communal silence as they usually did following one of his lengthy conjectures. Simon was the first to speak.

"Your theory is pretty solid," he began. "I don't think we're any closer to understanding the nature of consciousness like you said we would, though."

"I suppose that is so," acknowledged Walter. "However, I believe that we may have just had a small _glimpse_ into the bigger picture. Think of the possibilities! The answer to the Mind-Body problem that has been debated by mankind for thousands of years may now lie just beyond our grasp. Do these results mean that consciousness is separate from the brain, or that they are distinct things? Our understanding of ourselves and of the universe around us could be radically changed."

Kenneth's brows burrowed. Science, religion, philosophy; the lines demarcating theories from facts from ideas were slowly fading away, with only the mystery holding it all together.

"Alright," continued Simon. "Suppose Mikey's relatively inferior cognition was his downfall. Does this mean that species with more complex brains would better handle the amplification process?"

"I don't see why not," said Bruce. "Seems the next logical step would be to perform tests with more intelligent organisms. Heh, maybe we'll end up creating some sort of genius canine."

"Or a smartass octopus," quipped Simon.

"What about humans?" suggested Kenneth.

All chatter ceased as Kenneth voiced aloud the thought that had crossed everyone's mind at that point.

"Since humans have the most developed and complex brains of any species discovered so far," he continued to explain, "then it's only logical that humans would make the ultimate test subjects."

Carla frowned at the implications of Kenneth's suggestion.

"I don't think I'm too comfortable with the notion of human experimentation," she said. "Besides, having a superior brain doesn't guarantee that animals smarter than rodents won't just die as well. It would be way too risky. Not to mention unethical."

"Now, let's not get too ahead of ourselves," warned Walter. "Our concern at the moment is to investigate the causes and effects surrounding the rodent's transformation, nothing more. Still, I can't deny that I am eager to see how we can apply these findings for the greater benefit of humanity. Enhanced senses, greater physical prowess, increased longevity; who knows what we will be able to reap from the fruits of our research? Perhaps the secrets of life and death or even of God Himself will be revealed to us in time. Whatever the case may be, this is proving to be a very promising venue for scientific research. I will have to devise a new series of experiments aiming to explore the nature of this mysterious band of frequencies."

The lab assistants smiled in collective excitement at the prospects of their new mission. But no one was more excited than Kenneth; for in the Bio-Frequency Trials rested his best hopes in uncovering the mysteries surrounding him. So when Walter put his assistants to work on other secondary scientific research projects and experiments the team had been carrying out in the past few months, Kenneth proceeded to note changes in cellular structure of plant species exposed to psychedelic compounds with additional gusto.

Upon passing by a table, he noticed, in the far corner of the lab, the Frequency Chamber, the place where his vermin friend momentarily saw the face of Truth in all its resplendent glory. Kenneth silently hoped that he would come to a similar enlightening experience by the end of it all.

Green, green, green, red.

From his current perspective, a trio of plants on a table were bookended with a beaker of red chemical on a shelf further back in the lab; no sooner did he notice this that Bruce took the middle plant and carried it elsewhere, breaking the pattern's continuity. Kenneth shook his head, smirking. There seemed to be no escape from the haunting, ubiquitous spectre of the colours.

And that suited him just fine, for he intended to uncover the true nature of this mysterious pattern, no matter what it took.

* * *

><p><em>AN: As it was in The Arrival, The Deceived has but one Kenneth-centric. But don't despair; PTS III will have three of them. 8D_


	11. Chapter 10: Seeds

Chapter 10: Seeds

It began on a Sunday morning.

The plan the Arbiters had crafted three weeks ago was about to be enacted in an ancient, decrepit factory whose husk lied on the outskirts of the city of Leipzig. It was there that members of Apotheosis had been synthesizing and stockpiling of canisters of Slush Gas, the bone-dissolving agent that the Old World Society had ordered. With the order readied and secured, the five men currently present – Klein among them – lingered in the rusted halls of _Koenig __Inkorporiert_ in wait of Hoffman, whose arrival was scheduled for some time during the morning.

The Aube Division Witnesses stationed on a small expanse several yards away also awaited the lynchpin of their designs. They had been standing there for roughly twenty minutes, scoping the area with their specs every now and then with only rare sweeping winds to interrupt the stillness of the air, making the yellowing tufts of grass at their feet sway in a dance of the withering and dying. Of the two Witnesses January had assigned to the task, June was the first pick, seeing as Hoffman was one of his assigned Subjects; but that March was chosen was merely a matter of circumstance, as all other important Events were already being addressed, Events where the Arbiter did not want March to be present. And understandably so; they both knew that the chances of him committing yet another error have been raised by a significant margin.

March had fully expected to have been set aside until the Overseer's return, to be denied subsequent missions on the field, and he originally thought that January would have probably kept it that way were the others not currently scattered across Sector Beta. But he was surprised when the Arbiter told him that it was up to _him_ to restore balance, to set right what he had wronged.

They were sent off shortly after that exchange. The Witness thought this to be a fortunate development. Before him stood an opportunity to redeem himself in the eyes of his organization. And this opportunity he intended to seize, for restoring his honour as a Witness was the only thing that mattered to him at that point. He was created specifically to carry out the Overseer's Directive; his integrity as a Witness was one of the few things he actually possessed, and he most certainly did not want to lose it.

But was he at all ready? This he was less certain of. There were moments where he knew without any doubt that he would succeed, and others where he considered that any chances he had were slim, if not entirely nonexistent. His mind wandered across this continuum of doubt, sifting through many scenarios that could unfold; but there were so many variables he could not account for. Nothing was certain in this new future he had inadvertently created.

And perhaps, he thought, grimly, he might never know the comfort of certainty ever again.

"It is time," announced March, checking his pocket watch. "He will show himself any moment now. We should head inside and position ourselves so as to better observe the proceedings."

"Agreed," said June, a squat, bulky figure whose eyes shifted upwards at his taller, leaner companion.

March summoned his specs, scanning the facade of the manufacturing plant with various filters, and he saw that the man stationed on an upper floor as a lookout was still there, concealed by windows that had grown almost completely opaque with the years. Realizing that they could not enter the premises directly, they snapped to the eastern face of the edifice through the RLTB, landing well outside the guard's periphery.

The Witnesses had previously discussed the possibility of simply jumping directly into the building with the RLTB when they first came upon that initial grassy knoll, but decided against it due to their unfamiliarity with the layout of the building; they did not want to risk finding themselves bisected by a table or become partially lodged in a wall.

So they instead sought an alternative method of entry.

They began to walk parallel to the chalky brick walls on the right-hand side, observing their surroundings intently. Shards of glass, warped heaps of metal and equipment fossilised by neglect lay carelessly strewn across the asphalt lot, vegetation seeping through its many cracks. The agents waded through the area with calculated footing, always on the lookout. After contouring the debris of a fallen chimney that had toppled years ago on the southern side of the building (the top section of which had crushed a small repository some distance away), they halted in front of a locked, rust-devoured door. Not wanting to betray their position through pistol shots, June instead applied a glowing thumb against the keyhole and transferred a burst of kinetic energy to the lock; it plopped onto the floor on the other side of the door, leaving nothing but a round hole in its stead. They pushed it open with caution, trying to suppress the wailing of the weathered hinges as best as they could before entering the factory proper.

Koenig Inkorporiertwas once a prolific shoe manufacturer, if the heaps of faded, dust-powdered shoes lying in mounds around the room the Witnesses currently occupied were of any indication. They traversed the rectangular storage chamber and entered a small corridor giving way to the huge manufacturing area that made up the bulk of the establishment. The assembly lines still remained, conveyor belts spanning the better part of the hall's length and segmented regularly into many production stations. Great beams of iron jutted skyward, supporting the factory's structure. And the large windowpanes encrusted high up in the northern wall cast their dim light on the desolate landscape below.

Through the multitude of obstacles in their line of sight, members of Apotheosis could be seen busying about. The agents needed to have a clear view of the area, but in their present condition, they would only be able to do so by walking straight up to Apotheosis, getting spotted in the process. They quietly calculated possible solutions to their dilemma, remaining at the mouth of the corridor so as to not be seen. March looked up; there was a metal walkway hinged on the wall, leading to other areas on the upper floors of the building. He shifted his location – and altitude – without a sound. June, noticing his partner's absence, clued in on the situation in moments, and, spotting his colleague above, followed him to the ledge on the second floor.

Down below, they could see the shipment of the bio-weapon at the heart of the manufactory, multitudes of crates stacked on top of each other in pyramidal fashion. The four Apotheosis operatives present remained in the shipment's general vicinity, pacing around, seating in lawn chairs, having a smoke, talking amongst each other in low voices, and none noticing the otherworldly beings tracking their every movement from the heavens. It was an excellent vantage point; no corner of the great hall escaped their gazes. And the Witnesses found their spot not a moment too soon, for the lookout emerged from one of many passages extending from the production halls, a sign that their expected guest had breached the perimeter of _Koenig _territory.

And as two of the men tugged on lengthy chains to open the colossal roller doors of the factory's loading bay, the Aube Division agents watched everything unfold from their derelict parapets.

The panel lifted with copious mechanical grating, and the ever-smirking Alfred Hoffman strolled onto the concrete premises, taking in the sights. He found the place to be rather revolting and awfully dreary; they could not have chosen a more suitable location. The men of Apotheosis came forward to meet him, forming a small posse with Klein at the forefront.

"Welcome, Mister Hoffman," greeted Klein, shaking his acquaintance's gloved hand.

"Mister Klein! It's a pleasure to see you again."

Klein and his men formed a small semicircle around the Old World Society's envoy.

"The pleasure is all ours, Mister Hoffman," said Klein.

"The shipment is ready, I presume," said Hoffman.

"Yes, of course. Follow me."

Klein showed him the way, and they both walked side by side to the shipment's resting place. The rest of the group followed, keeping as much an eye on Hoffman as he was keeping an eye on them. Of all of them, however, he watched Klein the closest. Their encounter with the assassin several weeks ago had not left his mind – if anything, it became more prominent. The circumstances surrounding the whole affair had continued to intrigue him. And yet, the more he sat on it, the more he thought that there might not have been anything more to it; after all, Hoffman had survived a few assassination attempts in his day. Still, he began to think that perhaps a small investigation wouldn't hurt, just to be sure.

All notion of distrust were swiftly queued, however, when he was led to the shipment's resting site. Alfred's hands clasped in satisfaction at the sight of the great ziggurat showcased at the nexus of the factory halls.

"Ah, marvellous," he said with a smile.

He approached the large set of crates. At Klein's command, one of the men opened a crate with a crowbar; three canisters were nested within, cradled by insulating packaging. Hoffman seized one of them and scrutinized it closely, peering at it from different angles, asking questions of pertinence as he did so. He repeated the process with all of the canisters in that particular crate, taking all the time he needed. The men of Apotheosis looked on as Hoffman inspected the order in rapt silence; apprehension gripped them. He then walked two laps around the pyramid before coming at last to a standstill, holding his chin and pursing his lips as he gauged the quality of the weapon order. After this period of interminable review, he spoke.

"Good work, gentlemen. The Old World Society is pleased with the results."

The Apotheosis crew eased in collective relief at Hoffman's approval.

"How fast can this be shipped out?" asked the Old World representative.

"We can have it smuggled onto a freighter and carried overseas in three or four days, at minimum," estimated an Apotheosis member of Latin descent.

"Then the exchange will take place four days from now," declared Hoffman.

Silence befell the group as Hoffman's sole reason for coming there was fulfilled. But instead of exchanging departing pleasantries required by social norms and taking his leave as Apotheosis had expected him to do, he instead pulled up one of the lawn chairs and made himself comfortable, exhaling deeply .

"Well, gentlemen," he began, "now that all that has been settled, why don't we get to know each other a little better? I'm not busy at the moment, so we might as well chat for awhile."

Raised eyebrows and circumspect glances arose in Klein's company; they then took the remainder of the seats, appearing to have accepted the proposal, even though the wariness did not leave their eyes. Hoffman grinned. He had indeed been preparing himself to leave the hollows of the footwear manufactory, as he didn't quite care to be in the company of these men – and had, quite frankly, better things to do – but that doubt kept nagging in the back of his mind, compelling him to stay. He would test them, he decided, and Klein in particular. He acknowledged that it could be dangerous, however. Curiosity was a trait that had led him to the brink of death before; luckily for him, he was a pretty fast cat.

"Want one?" offered the Latin man, passing around frosty beers from a nearby cooler.

"No thanks," replied Hoffman. "I don't drink."

The men took swigs of their refreshments asynchronously. Now that everyone was settled, the man with the German accent broke the ice.

"Apotheosis...what an interesting name," began Hoffman. "I imagine there was more to your decision to choose such a name than simple _cool_ factor."

"Of course," said one of them, whom Hoffman guessed to be of Ukrainian origin by the thickness of the man's accent. "But whether you can handle truth is something else."

"Please, enlighten me," challenged Hoffman.

"Apotheosis," began Klein, as though reciting from a text. "The process of divine exaltation. At the moment of Technological Singularity that will arise from our technological progress, humankind will ascend to heights hitherto unimagined. It's the next stage in our evolution as a species, and we're only here to help the process along."

The men of Apotheosis held the distant stares of those who were listening to something they had heard many times before. They were just as ardent in their ideology as Hoffman had expected them to be. He supposed that it was fortunate for them; in this game, only the extremists and the fanatics and the idealists survived long enough to have any substantial impact on the course of the Silent War.

Klein stood cross-armed, resting against the crates of Slush Gas. Hoffman analyzed everything about him, his face, his countenance, his way of speaking, gauging his behaviour; but the only thing he might have betrayed was his belief in his words. His brows flexed as he wondered if his suspicions were as well grounded as he had originally thought.

March and June watched on. They were pleased that Hoffman had taken the initiative to pursue his doubts of Apotheosis, as it lessened their workload a little. He was more distrustful of his peers than they had predicted him to be. Even so, they remained vigilant in their observation, seeking to change the probability that someone slip up and thereby allowing them to sow the seeds of skepticism in Hoffman's mind.

_Trust your instincts._

"I see," said Hoffman. "Tell me, Mister Klein, do your firmly believe in what you say?"

"Of course," replied Klein.

"And are you loyal to your cause?"

"Yes," he said, though clearly wondering why Hoffman was asking him all of this.

"Would you be willing to _die_ for it?"

"...What?"

"Are you willing to die for your cause?" repeated Hoffman, sharpening his enunciation, grinning wolfishly all the while.

Their gazes locked, both trying to glean the other's possible intent. A few seconds passed before Klein spoke.

"Yes," he said with an assured voice.

The two maintained their contest of wills. Klein seemed rather confident in himself, thought Hoffman. And yet, for a split second, he could have sworn that he discerned fear and doubt in the Apotheosis operative's steely eyes. Julian Klein was a member of a group with radical ideologies, and only the most fanatical of people would care to join such an organization. Yet he hesitated a bit too long for Hoffman's liking; it seemed that more mind games were in order.

_Keep your eyes peeled._

"Ah, forgive me, Mister Klein," said Hoffman. "I wasn't trying to upset you. I was merely a little curious."

Klein and the others were not cowed into remission, remaining standoffish. Hoffman did not want to raise the ire of his hosts, as they were all armed, and he had no chance of taking them all on should things turn sour. He therefore held his tongue for awhile, letting their distrust lessen to a simmer.

As Hoffman continued to search for subtler means of attack, Klein reached into his pocket and removed his vibrating phone.

"Please excuse me," he said. "I have to take this."

Klein vacated the circle, halting near one of the large iron support pillars to answer the call, his back turned to them. Hoffman turned to the others, who were watching him with thinly-veiled mistrust.

"He's new to the game, isn't he?" guessed Hoffman.

"He joined us around two years ago," agreed the Latin man. "But he's pretty good, and pretty damn smart, too. He's the one who developed the Slush Gas formula."

"Is that right?" asked Hoffman, rather surprised.

The Ukrainian man slurped the last of his beer before crushing the can and tossing it over his large shoulders.

"Mmm," he muttered in agreement. "He shows much promise, this boy."

Hoffman held his chin. These people – no doubt hardened and experienced soldiers – seemed to think highly of Klein. And while it wasn't necessarily indicative that Klein wasn't actually keeping something from the rest of his crew as he had suspected, Hoffman's doubts were nevertheless slowly fading. His motivation for being cautious in dealing with Klein was rooted mostly in concern that the Old World Society would be dragged into whatever baggage Klein carried around with him; now, it seemed less probable that it would affect Hoffman and the organization he represented.

_Look at him._

Hoffman glanced over to Klein by the beam; there was a solemn expression to his face, and he kept giving brief, furtive glances to the group seated around the shipment.

_He is hiding something._

Was his guard slipping up? Hoffman's suspicions were suddenly reignited, and his eyes narrowed. It felt as though his instincts were trying to warn him of some pressing danger; his senses have never failed him in the past, so he hearkened to their words.

Klein soon finished his call, and then proceeded to walk back to the group. One of the men addressed him with a movement of the head, silently asking him to brief them on what news he has received.

"Something's come up," announced Klein. "I have to go."

"What is it?" asked the Latin man.

"Xavier wants to meet with me," said Klein. "He said it was urgent."

The Ukrainian man raised an eyebrow.

"But Julian," he said, perplexed. "He is in Brazil right now."

Hoffman's mind was on fire. It was clear that the Ukrainian man didn't fully believe Klein's statement; but more telling still was the worry beaming out Klein's eyes. Hoffman was convinced with absolute certainty that he was lying; the way he looked at his crewmates – the way he was not really looking _at_ them, but _past_ them – had given him away.

_I have you now, Klein!_

Klein now seemed at a loss, his distress almost magnified under the lens of Hoffman's predatory leer; but his reticence proved to be merely a momentary affair, catching himself upright and donning his game face as swiftly as it had disappeared.

"Hey, I'm just as confused as you are," shrugged Klein. "He said that he's flying up here two days from now, and he wants me to meet him in Frankfurt when he arrives for some important matters."

"Are you sure of this?" asked the Ukrainian man. "It was your idea to sell the Slush Gas to the Old World in the first place; would it not be better if you were present at the transaction site? Perhaps we should give Xavier a call, just to see what this is all about."

"You know as well as I do that we don't call Xavier," reminded Klein matter-of-factly. "He calls us. If he wants you to know what the situation is, he'll contact you."

The Ukrainian man conceded, knowing that Klein spoke the truth, and all doubt left him; but Hoffman was less than fooled.

"In a few days?" asked the Latin man. "Looks like you won't be coming with us to America, then."

"I guess not," acquiesced Klein. "But I'll be sure to get you guys up to speed once you come back."

Hoffman was impressed by Klein's nimble thinking; it appeared that he had found himself a worthy adversary.

"I suppose this is where we part ways, Mister Hoffman," said Klein in a hospitable tone. "I hope the transaction proceeds smoothly despite my unplanned absence."

He shook Hoffman's hands before leaving out one of the passages in the eastern wall. A few moments later, Hoffman checked his watch, feigning to register the time, then promptly rose from his seat.

"It looks like I have to be on my way as well, unfortunately," declared Hoffman. "It's been wonderful chatting with you all. I look forward to seeing you again overseas in a few days."

He shook all of their hands in succession, and then left the building through the same passage Klein took as the men of Apotheosis discussed their shared dislike of the Old World's ambassador. He stayed at the door that led outside until he spotted Klein driving away. Once he was gone, Hoffman entered his own vehicle, which was parked a little ways down the road, and swiftly began the hunt for Julian Klein of Apotheosis.

The Witnesses were standing outside now, having followed Hoffman discreetly from the upper floors before shifting their location below to Koenig's asphalt domain. The task had been much easier than they had predicted; Hoffman's distrustful inclinations did most of their work for them. The seeds they have planted in the beds of his consciousness have sprouted, driving him further down the path of the truth.

"It worked," noted June, pleased.

"Yes," said March. "But it is not over yet. Come, we must hurry."

The Witnesses then disappeared from the lot, one after the other, making haste for the city of Frankfurt, ready to shepherd the predator and its prey along the next phase in their plan.


	12. Chapter 11: The Pact

Chapter 11: The Pact

"_**Activate Event Protocol  
>Location Sector Alpha-2 [39.95-75.17/03.57]  
>Time at 01:26:52 AM Local<br>[Priority code 1618]"**_

The train sped along the dark tunnels of the underground railways, sending vibrations rippling through its metal hull. On the outside, dim lights shone intermittently, and once in awhile, there would be a high screeching noise, wheels grinding upon rails, sounding like the distant cry of some great blind beast that dwelt deep in the tunnels hidden beyond sight.

August and October found themselves in one of the hindmost cabins of the train, along with many others. Some of the passengers in the immediate vicinity of the Witnesses could not help but stare at these strange men, one of whom was reading the newspaper with intent while the other contented himself in reciprocating their stares; his head periodically swivelled and cocked with an almost hypnotic grace to its movements.

"Excuse me, sir," asked the woman seated between the two. "Do you know how many stops are left until we get to 30th Street Station?"

The man turned to her with the most inexpressive face she had ever seen, and replied with the blandest voice she had ever heard.

"You will arrive at your destination in exactly four minutes and thirty-four seconds."

He returned his sights ahead of him, just as stoic as we was before. The woman was beginning to feel ill at ease. There was this quality to these men that she could not quite articulate, her words failing her utterly, and even the attempts to rationalize it through abstract, intuitive concepts were unable to do the sensation justice. There was this air of _surreality_ to them, pervading the entirety of their being; they were there, but they were also _more_ than there, in a way. And yet, they weren't totally _there_ either. This logical incongruity nagged at her subconscious, seeping into the waters of her conscious mind just as it did to those who also found themselves in the presence of the Witnesses. The woman was relieved, therefore, when she disembarked at her intended station four minutes and thirty-four seconds after the man had spoken, following and being followed by fellow passengers off the train and into the station's larger crowd beyond.

The Witnesses, however, did not move.

Of the Crépuscule Division agents at his disposal, December had assigned the two of them to oversee the weapons transaction following the success of the first act of March and June's mission in Sector Beta three days ago. August had inquired why September was not chosen to go, seeing as he had more experience with handling sensitive tasks; but September was currently overseeing the teleportation of David Robert Jones, so August accepted the mission, though he was not particularly pleased that his plans to observe the Girl would have to wait.

They had shifted to the outskirts of Philadelphia earlier that evening. They were going to shift to the transaction site directly through the RLTB, but October suggested they take the subway there instead, seeing as the location was on the other side of the city and that they had plenty of time to spare. August agreed; when the opportunity arose, the Witnesses would usually take the scenic route if time allowed it. So they walked to the nearest station and began to make their subterranean way to the end of the line.

As they progressed on their underground journey, their cabin slowly emptied at every subsequent stop until only the Witnesses remained. It was oddly more tranquil now that the humans had left. The two had begun to form inadvertent connections through Passive Calibration from their prolonged exposure to them, and their collective thought processes had son flooded the cabin's expanse; in their absence, the mental tumult had ceased entirely, the telepathic connections severed once they left the vehicle. Adding to this serenity was the train that rocked them gently as it scurried forth into the darkness and the rhythmic chug of the wheels as they turned. The sounds, the lights, the sensations; August was glad that October had convinced him to take this route.

He turned his eyes back to the newspaper, flipping to the next page. _Dozen Die in Greyhound Bus Crash,_ said the article's headline. August scanned the page, absorbing its contents in mere seconds, reading every word. He had witnessed many deaths, and from his perspective, would come to witness many more, even if only through the observation of future possibilities. He wondered if the Girl would die one day as well, a thought that brought about a foreign, unwelcome sensation.

He also wondered what it would be like for him to die, despite knowing that he and his kind would never experience such a thing.

October verified his pocket watch.

"Will we be able to travel by foot to the site once we return to the surface?" asked August, seeing this.

"Yes," answered October. "We will arrive with approximately twenty-eight minutes to spare, should things proceed without obstruction."

The hangar that has been chosen for the transaction was located at a small, private airstrip just outside the city perimeter, in one of the outlying suburbs. The shipment had already arrived, and in a few hours, members from both factions involved would begin to congregate there. The two Witnesses were apprehensive for the task ahead, though October was more so; for while March and June's initial success seemed to bode well for the completion of the overall mission, October knew from experience how quickly an event could veer into an unexpected direction.

His experiences with Mosley almost two months ago continued to haunt him, and he still wasn't pleased that Mosley escaped him not once at the Westford site, but again in death. He had been working hard to try and make up for his failure since, in part to restore and preserve his integrity as a Witness, but also in part because he did not want to fail again, dreading the sensations it brought along with it.

First September, now March; it seemed to him as though the Witnesses were starting to slip up after so many years. Who among them would be next? The notion of failure lingered in his mind as a spider lingers in a crevice; you could not see it, but you knew it was somewhere in there, watching, waiting for the opportunity to emerge. He knew it would strike the moment he let his guard down for but a moment, so he braced himself for the hardship to come. The correction of the Irregularity depended on tonight's performance on all their parts. If he was to achieve their goal, his mind must be focused and clear of all subjective clutter.

Failure was not an option.

They sat in silence for several minutes until the door to their right slid open. A man stepped in from the next cabin over, closing the door behind him. The Witnesses turned their heads. The man turned and took a step forward, then halted when his eyes fell upon the cabin's occupants. Both parties froze, staring at each other in alarm.

The man stared at them as though they were the last individuals he was expecting to meet in that place.

The Witnesses stared because the man was glimmering.

The man's initial surprise gave way to a bemused smirk. He then proceeded to take a seat opposite of the cabin's other two occupants. The Witnesses shared a glance of concern at the new arrival, whose yellow aura flickered under their eyes, an aura signifying his otherworldly origin. Their first thought was that he might be one of the GDC's Hybrid soldiers from Sector-1, but then ruled out the possibility moments later; the brain patterns of the Hybrids were unique, mathematical algorithms underlying pre-programmed human behavioural traits, and the process of Calibration to their minds was almost instantaneous.

Upon further inspection, the man before them definitely seemed to be human, but he was unlike any human they've encountered before. His probability tree was fuzzier, his temporal precursor harder to see, and, more distressing, the act of Calibration to his mind proved to be impossible. The Witnesses were not sure how to proceed, and it would have been reckless to discuss things in front of him; and Calibration between Witnesses was not allowed, for the Overseer had deemed it to be dangerous, so they could not employ telepathic communication and were thus at a disadvantage.

The man continued to watch them with those strange emerald eyes that teased them with the knowledge they could not access. An uneasy tension filled the cabin while the train continued to roll along. The Witnesses looked at each other once again, both at a loss.

"Gum?"

Their eyes snapped back to the glowing man, who was extending a packet of peppermint chewing gum. The Witnesses were taken aback by the offer, and did not quite know how to react.

"...No," said August moments later. "Thank you."

The man held out the packet in October's direction now, but October did not speak. Seeing this, the man acquiesced with a shrug and helped himself to a piece. August returned to his newspaper, feigning to read it while keeping a periodic eye on their fellow passenger. As for October, he continued to gaze at the man warily, and whenever he would look back, October would avert his eyes, looking out the windows or towards the floor.

A single thought occupied both their minds. They had to find a way to learn what they could about this man so that they could properly assess his place in the scheme of things, by extension determining how he should be dealt with as per the Directive. But alas, all of their usual information retrieval methods were proving ineffective, and only one course of action remained.

"Excuse me," began August hesitantly. "May I ask you your name?"

"I'll tell you mine if you tell me yours," the man replied with an amused smile.

The Witnesses shared a glance, causing the man to chuckle.

"Hey, don't worry about it," he said. "Allow me to formally introduce myself. I am Thomas Moroe. But you can just call me Tom."

He performed a small inclination as he disclosed his name to the Witnesses. He fiddled with the ring on his left hand, in which was set a grapefruit-coloured gem; when the cabin hit a bump, Moroe's appearance seemed to shift ever so slightly for them, the proportions of his body warped, only to return to their original form an instant later.

"What about you gentlemen?" asked Thomas.

"I am Mister Price," said October, "and this is my associate, Mister Cook."

Such were their seldom used aliases. September was Mister Reed, March was Mister Ross, December was Mister Wright; the Overseer's own pseudonym was Mister Richards. They all had aliases for interactions with humans. But was this individual a human or something else entirely?

"Well, Mister Price," said Thomas, "it's a pleasure to meet you and your associate."

A train sped past them in the opposite direction.

"You are not from around here, are you?" noted August, trying to be as casual as he could.

"No," said Thomas. "I can't say that I am."

"Then where are you from?" asked October, trying to feign genuine interest, though his question ended up sounding more authoritative than anything else.

"I come from somewhere far away," said Thomas. "You two seem to hail from a distant place as well."

Thomas smiled, causing the Witnesses to tense. It seemed as though he knew more about them than he was letting on.

"I'd like to ask _you_ a question now, if I might," said Thomas. "How many solipsists does it take to screw in a light bulb?"

The Witnesses said nothing. They weren't sure how the question was at all relevant to their discussion, and October didn't know what a solipsist even was.

"What light bulb?" said Tom, palms held out.

It was clear that Thomas found the joke to be a clever one, but the Witnesses, for whom humour was something they were never able to fully grasp, continued to stare, causing Thomas to shake his head.

"My, my," he said, more to himself than anyone. "You'd think after thousands of years, you'd have time to develop a more refined sense of humour."

Upon hearing this, the Witnesses immediately stood and drew their pistols on the glimmering man before assaulting him with questions.

"How do you know that?" asked August.

"Where is it that you come from?" asked October.

"Who do you work for?" asked August.

"Who are you, really?" asked October.

Thomas raised his hands as he slowly rose to his feet. All amusement in his face was gone, replaced instead by great caution and some amount of confusion.

"What are you doing?" he asked. "The Pact is in effect. You can't harm me."

The Witnesses shared a perplexed glance, and Tom seemed to experience some sort of insight.

"You weren't told about the Pact, were you?" asked an incredulous Thomas upon noticing their puzzlement.

"Of which pact do you speak?" asked October. "There exists no agreement of any kind between you and I."

"Huh," uttered Thomas, speaking mainly to himself. "I don't believe it. But then again, I can see why he wouldn't."

He then addressed the Witnesses directly.

"Alright, gentlemen," began Thomas, "the only thing you need to know about the Pact is the following: the less you know, the better. Just don't openly attack me or those who are like me or get involved in our affairs. If you do this, I'll do the same for your kind, and everything will be alright."

"And what if we do not?" asked October, taking a small step forward, pistol aimed at the man's forehead.

"Trust me," said Thomas gravely. "Breaching the terms of the Pact is the last thing you want to do."

The train started to slow down as it neared the last station on the line.

"This is my stop," said Thomas. "If you gentlemen will excuse me, I'll be going now."

Thomas looked at them sternly, waiting for them to lower their arms; and lower them they did, though not without great hesitation. He then headed for the exit, positioning himself in front of the door as the train entered the station proper.

"Where are you going?" asked August.

"Mister Price, Mister Cook," said Thomas as he turned about. "Unfortunately, I don't have the time to stay here and explain the situation. If you have any questions, I'm sure your Overseer will be able to fill you in."

The train stopped. A ringing noise echoed from the intercom, and the doors slid open.

"Love and Light, my friends," said Thomas with a slight bow.

He exited the cabin, leaving the Witnesses behind. They stood for a moment before gathering their senses and stepping out in a hurry onto the station platform, looking for Moroe. But they could not discern him anywhere in the crowd.

He was gone.

The Crépuscule Division agents stood dumbly near the platform's edge, even after the train left. It was only after October checked the time that they resumed their course. They ascended to the streets above, proceeding north along 63rd Street. The Witnesses did not speak. Their encounter with Thomas Moroe had left them stupefied and filled with questions. What was this Pact? Who brokered it? Why haven't they heard of it before?

As they began to near the transaction site, they had no choice but to set these questions aside for later review. The only thing that mattered right now was the oversight of the sale, and they could let nothing undermine their resolve.

But even their determination could not stop them from wondering whether March and June would be able to complete their end of the mission before it was too late.


	13. Chapter 12: Incubation

Chapter 12: Incubation

"Are you ready for this?" asked Watchdog.

Crow exhaled deeply.

"As ready as I'll ever be," he answered.

"Alright, then," said Watchdog, peering around the corner. "Let's go."

They crept out from behind the brick wall against which they were pressed and advanced into open territory, walking the streets of Watertown under the cover of midnight. Their pace was leisurely, confident, but it was clear in their steps that they were not wandering about without purpose. Their faces were relaxed, stolid, not betraying anything that might have been on their minds. And their eyes scoured every nook, every hole, every neighbouring path that branched from their own, anticipating any sights or sounds that could portend to a possible threat, however minimal, as they headed to the Rickman Equipment and Supplies store.

Three weeks had passed since the Liberation Front's inaugural assembly at Gary's apartment. The six of them had been working tirelessly to perfect their plan of action ever since. Dan and Gary had spent their time sharing their experiences in dealing with the Shapeshifters, and discussed their observed behavioural quirks thus far almost ad nauseam. Since the Hybrids were primarily machines, they first thought that perhaps they should add a little mechanical edge to their manner of speaking and moving, but they discarded the notion when they realized the reason they blended in so well was because they acted exactly _like_ humans; so instead, they decided that they would act like themselves, lessening the workload considerably. In conjunction with the crafting of their act, they also reviewed all the Intel Dan and Spock had amassed, trying to remember as many details as they could so that they could prove their Hybrid origins in the event they were pressed.

On that night, Crow and the Watchdog were dressed casually, Gary in his trademark bean hat and hood, and Dan in his brown leather coat and mundane attire. As part of their act – they were Shapeshifters who had just taken on the identity of a couple of unfortunate mopes – they carried no special equipment of any kind, and were unarmed as well. Enigma – whose given name, as it turned out, was Isaac Keane – had fulfilled his promise of supplying weapons for the team; apparently, a couple of people owed him favours. In conversing with him, Dan came to realize that Keane was the real deal: he had been a member of an anti-corporatist group in his early twenties, and had participated in many acts of sabotage and vandalism against corrupt mega-corporations, even leading a few raids himself now and again. It was an impressive resume, to say the least.

An uneasy feeling formed in the pit of Dan's stomach when Keane had unveiled to him the boxes of ammunition and the handguns stockpiled in the trunk of his car. He knew that it was a necessary precaution, for the Shapeshifters would certainly be carrying weapons of their own, but he dreaded the possibility – or perhaps, inevitability – of armed conflict nonetheless, knowing from experience how south a firefight could go.

Walking down the street, however, Dan thought being in the middle of a firefight was more desirable a situation than his current one. Being unarmed, he would have to rely solely on his wits to squeeze his way out of trouble should it decide to rear its head at them. He and Gary had formulated a few general ideas on how to react to certain situations, but they weren't very concrete; improvisation would be their only ally tonight.

Roaming the sidewalk, Dan could picture the rest of the team as they scurried in the darkness several blocks away. In the past three weeks, Polaris – otherwise known as Rebecca Stone – had built around two dozen nitroglycerin-based satchel charges, which were to be arranged in groups of four per timed detonator, thereby amounting to six bombs total. As Crow and the Watchdog made their way to the compound, the rest of the team would be busy transporting the explosives up the riverside path to the area behind the compound's lot where the recon mission had taken place.

There was no way of knowing how smoothly the transportation process was going, though, seeing as Gary and Dan were not equipped with communication devices of any kind. Likewise, they would not be able to contact them either; the burden of the mission was going to rest squarely on both their shoulders until one of the two would-be shifters sneaked out to the lot's perimeter and secured a way into the establishment for Spock, Keane, Becca, and George "Druid" Nelson, who would all be waiting at the riverside passage with explosives in tow. The weight of this burden intensified with Dan's every step, and even more so when the compound manifested itself in the horizon.

"We're getting close now," announced Watchdog, looking ahead. "Remember, stay cool, and don't hesitate, even for a second."

The flight-or-fight response kicked in all of a sudden; Dan had the sudden urge to run, to just flee in the opposite direction as fast as he could and not look back. His heart raced as he tried to master his instincts, which were trying to dissuade him from willfully entering a place he knew was dangerous. And yet, the closer he got to the front gates, the clearer the sentry's face became, and he remembered why he volunteered for this task in the first place. Clenching his jaw, he ditched the flight in favour of the fight, all the fire burning within at the thought of what the First Wave intended to do pushing him forward. As the pair prepared to face the guard, he took a deep breath.

_Here goes nothing._

The sentry looked out into the distance. Two men were crossing the street in his direction. One had shaggy hair topped with a bean hat and wearing a black hoodie, and the other sported a short, slightly ruffled haircut, donning jeans and a brown leather jacket, looking around as though to make sure they weren't being followed. They came to meet him at the gate, and the bean hat man addressed him.

"Hey there," hailed Gary.

The guard was an intimidating fellow, staring them down with intense eyes and dark features.

"Listen, man," continued Gary. "I know it's kinda late to be asking this, but we were wondering if you guys sell any John Deere mowers here."

"Any model in particular?" asked the Shapeshifter with a raised eyebrow.

"Yeah," said Dan. "A Waterloo Boy. 6055R."

The guard said nothing; he seemed rather angry, though it might have just been his neutral expression. Dan's heart pounded madly in his chest, and he had to focus to control his breathing. A terrible thought crossed his mind. Could it be that they already been discovered? Perhaps Shapeshifters had thermal lenses built into their eyes that could easily detect humans through their specific body temperature, or maybe they could communicate with each other through radio waves, or –

"Well, looks like you're in luck," said the guard seconds later, features softening. "It just so happens that we have a few left in stock."

He then unlocked the gate and drew it open. Dan and Gary exchanged a short glance.

"Just head out behind this building over here and go inside through the back door. The guys will hook you up once you're in there."

"Thanks a bunch," said the Watchdog, replying in the same rehearsed tone the guard was using.

The pair then proceeded through the gate, which was then locked shut once again.

Dan and Gary permitted themselves a smile. They could hardly believe that it worked. The ruse was easier to maintain than either of them had expected. The adrenaline rush Dan experienced was invigorating, and with renewed confidence, they made their way out back and opened the door found on the rear face of the facility, which was thankfully unlocked.

They were now in the store's loading dock area. Before them were a number of small utility vehicles and landscaping equipment, lined up into rows and columns on the concrete floor. They made their way up the nearest such path, passing ride-on lawnmowers, leaf blowers, weed whackers, chainsaws, and a plethora of other useful machinery as they did, before at last emerging into the bulk of the store's space. With caution, they passed through the series of aisles before ending up in the spacious area at front end of the building.

The five men gathered around the checkout counter paused their conversation and looked to the new arrivals. Among them, Dan recognized the Lead Shapeshifter from the Recon mission several weeks ago, who looked the same as he previously did. Dan was wondering how long they could maintain their identities when the leader stepped forward, presumably to greet them.

"Who the hell are you guys?" he asked instead.

The Liberation Front agents froze; they were not expecting such hostility. Dan was at a loss as to how he should proceed, and his mind went blank save for repeated curses at the fact that his mind was going blank.

"Well, according to this," started the Watchdog, pulling out his wallet and reading the driver's licence, "I'm Gary Saunders."

"And for now, I guess I'm Daniel Thompson," added Dan, playing along.

Dan looked over to Gary. It was a brilliant play on his part; if they had remained hesitant for but a few more seconds, the head shifter would probably have gotten suspicious, and they would have faced certain doom. As for the leader, he chuckled a little; Dan mused that introductions must be staples of Shapeshifter comedy or something. But the leader's smile then faded, and his stern, scrutinizing expression returned.

"I see," he said, seeming to realize these were Hybrids. "But what are you two doing here? We weren't expecting anyone."

The pseudo-shifters were stumped once again.

_Think, Daniel, think._

"Um... The Secretary sent us here," said Dan.

"Why wasn't I informed of this?" asked the leader.

"Beats me," shrugged Dan. "We're just following orders."

"What orders would that be?"

"We were just told to come here and report for duty, nothing more. I assumed it's because someone put in a request for additional hands, but I guess that isn't the case."

The leader rested his face in the palm of his hand, sighing in irritation.

"I can't believe this," he said. "Well, I suppose there's nothing much we can do about it for now. I'll have to head down to the nearest Relay Station and sort this out with the higher-ups. Since you guys are stuck here for now, though, I might as well put you two to good use in the meantime. Brian!"

One of the four Hybrids gathered around the checkout counter came to the head shifter's side. He was of a tall, athletic build, a young man barely out of his teenage years.

"Show them to the Incubation Tanks and have them assist you in replacing the filters," ordered the leader.

"Understood," said Brian.

He hollered one of the other Shapeshifters at the counter, and he opened the cash register, removed a spare key, and tossed it to Brian, who caught it with a single hand.

"Okay, follow me," he then asked.

Brian led the way back into the supply aisles, and the two pseudo-shifters followed him promptly. They manoeuvred their way back to the storage area and entered a closet-like room, filled with various cleaning tools and products. And in what Dan thought as typical Shapeshifter fashion, Brian heaved a shelf aside, revealing the outline of a door that blended in with surrounding walls. Using his key, Brian unlocked it, and it gave way to a flight of stairs. The Shapeshifter bade Dan and Gary to proceed, and the pair entered. Brian turned to lock the door once more. Dan took notice of this; unless they could get a hold of the key, a possible route of escape was now crossed out. Brian returned to the front of the pack to guide them, and when he wasn't looking, Dan made a few small gestures to inform his partner of the development.

By stairwell's end, they were a few floors beneath Rickman's, and just to their left was a red door. Upon bridging the distance, Dan could clearly see the strange Omega-Headphone symbol etched on its face, a symbol that he guessed this time around was meant to represent the First Wave.

"Have you guys ever been to a Titan Processing Plant before?" asked Brian, unlocking the door.

"Uh, no, we haven't," said the Watchdog. "We just matured, like, a half hour ago."

"Oh," replied Brian. "Well, in that case, your disks are going to fry when you see the tanks. It's really something else."

Dan and Gary said nothing. Though their faces remained unmoving, their eyes were sparking with dread and anticipation when they met. They longed the next few winding corridors, descending down stairs every now and again – those Shapeshifters sure loved their subterranean lairs, thought Dan – and soon enough, they entered the Titan Processing Plant.

"Holy crap," said Dan, unwittingly speaking aloud what he had intended to say in his mind.

The room he found himself in was enormous, slightly bigger than a high school gymnasium, which appeared even bigger when he reminded himself that he was underground. Concrete rubble parsed the floors in unequal distribution, and the place was lit by rows of HID lamps set high above. Large cylindrical glass tubes lined the walls on either side of the group, and by Dan's estimates were almost as thick as redwoods and as tall as three-storey houses. There were six such tubes on either wall, all filled with a thick, hazy green liquid. Multitudes of wires extended from their thick tops and bases, which were routed into supercomputer-like monoliths, in turn plugged into sophisticated computer interfaces standing some meters away from the base of the tanks. Their wide screens were replete with streams of data and ever-morphing diagrams that neither Dan nor Gary could decipher.

"Beautiful, aren't they?" said Brian. "They're almost eleven months old, now. Just a few more, and they'll be ready to go.

"They're pretty big," noted Gary. "How exactly do you guys plan on transporting them out of here?"

"Have no fear," said Brian. "We've been growing Titans here for four years, so we've developed a pretty efficient system. When they're ready, we'll tip them over and pass them through tunnels we made that connect to decommissioned subway tunnels not too far from here. Our boys will be able to take them from there and bring them to the surface at an abandoned train station. Then they'll shipped off to the maturation and acclimatization facility in Newark."

Gary nodded, appearing interested in the conversation. Dan looked off into the distance; there was indeed a cavernous opening in the wall, leading into tenebrous depths. He then turned to Brian and spoke.

"Wouldn't it be easier to just do everything in one place?" he asked.

For a brief instant, Brian looked at Dan as though he had said something very out of the norm for a Shapeshifter. Dan hard tried not to wince from the apparent gaffe in front of Brian. Gary seemed similarly distressed, but kept silent. The look of puzzlement was gone as fast as it appeared, however, and Brian assumed his regular demeanour.

"You know how it is," said Brian, shrugging. "Compartmentalization. It's the Hybrid way of life. Sure, it makes things terribly complicated sometimes – I'm not looking forward to having to haul these things to the tunnels– but it _does_ reduce the risk of the First Wave operation being uncovered by a significant amount, so there isn't much we can do about it."

The group stopped in front of one of the tanks. Dan craned his neck up to try and grasp the tube's scale, but the sudden sense of vertigo he caught made him regret the action. Thin strands of bubbles rose in constant progression in the green fluid; but Dan couldn't see anything that may have fit the definition of a Titan. He outstretched his arm to place his hand on the warm, perspiring glass surface of the tank.

Seconds later, a gargantuan upside-down hand surged from the deep to greet him.

Dan jolted back, nearly tripping on one of the many cables strewn on the floor. The hand pressing against the glass was almost bigger than Dan's own size; it could have easily picked him up and held him in the air. Soon after, the hand retreated from view, disappearing entirely. As Dan followed its movements, he thought he could discern the outlines of a vaguely humanoid silhouette in the green haze, monstrous in proportions, forced into an upside-down foetal position as a result of the tank's narrowing confines.

A Titan.

"Heh, I think it likes you," said Brian in jest. "Alright guys, let's switch these filters and get it over with already."

Brian instructed them on how to properly remove a tank's old filter – in which foul organic residue was encrusted – and replace it with a newer one. The filters, large metallic frames with fine meshes in the centers, were very heavy; and Brian, being a Shapeshifter, was very strong. It was fortunate that Dan and Gary were holding the filters on the other end, for they would have revealed their lesser human strengths if they had lifted the grates individually.

Dan's mind remained on red alert throughout the menial labour. They had successfully infiltrated the compound and found the place where they kept the Titans. The next step of their plan entailed securing the room itself. There would be only one way to do this, they knew, and both Liberation Front agents kept their eyes peeled for a window of opportunity.

They found it at the fourth Titan incubation tank.

As Brian knelt to unhinge the plate that gave access to the filter, Dan spotted a pipe wrench lying among some other tools scattered beside the computer terminal. He alerted Gary with a glance, and he nodded, understanding his partner's intentions. The Watchdog picked it up slowly, and then crept gently towards an unsuspecting Brian. Dan's mind was on fire, and his body tensed. Gary advanced step by step, halted when he got close enough, and shifted his weight to strike.

Brian turned around.

"Hey, what do you know," he said in pleasant surprise. "That's exactly what I needed! Thanks, man."

Gary, who had frozen in his tracks the moment Brian looked at him, had no choice but to surrender the wrench to him. When Brian returned to his work, Dan gave Gary a quick look, who returned the glance with a helpless shrug. Their window of opportunity had closed so fast that it nearly took their fingers with it.

Brian managed to loosen the filter with the wrench's aid and heaved it out.

"_There_ we go!" he exclaimed in triumph.

The recruits assisted Brian in replacing the filter, inserting it into the slot.

"Hey, I learned the coolest thing the other day," said Brian as he worked to secure the new filter. "Apparently, the Harvesters will have these built-in communication modules that'll allow Hybrids to talk to them in math-based code. Pretty neat, right? I mean, human language certainly has its perks, but nothing beats greeting one another with differential calculus."

"Yeah, totally," agreed Dan with feigned enthusiasm.

"They're gonna be coming soon, you know," continued Brian. "The First Wave is almost complete. Although, things have been going kind of slow ever since Newton got blown up in Darfur back in '05. I guess Newton was supposed to lead the Second Wave, but they say Gottfried is going to lead it now."

In addition to not knowing what exactly the Shapeshifter was talking about, Dan was finding Brian's increasingly chatty disposition to be somewhat irritating. And whenever he would talk, he would stop working on the filter (the slot where it went was apparently damaged) and addressed them directly, so all the pseudo-shifters could do was stand and nod. They were getting impatient, and realized that if they did not act soon, they would not be able to use the element of surprise to their advantage.

"Looks like you're eager to meet the Harvesters," noted Gary.

"Not that much, actually," confided Brian. "I'm more looking forward to getting extracted than anything else. I've been here for seven years, and I've had five identities. I've grown fond of this world and its many sights, but like Annabelle once said, there's no place like home."

Dan tried to imagine what kind of place these things came from, but had trouble picturing anything concrete. He could not help but think it was a dark place, and highly mechanized; who knows, perhaps they actually did come from ships stationed near the dark side of the moon. Wherever it was, he wanted nothing more than for Brian and his kind to return to their place of origin as soon as possible, because they sure as hell didn't belong here.

Brian snapped the panel back into place. He then arose and handed the pipe wrench back to Gary.

"I think I've been going a little too soft on you guys," he said. "Why don't you two handle the next one?"

"Sure thing," said Gary. "Oh, hey, um... the panel's kind of crooked."

Brian turned to verify Gary's claim.

And when he did, Watchdog delivered a devastating blow to the base of the Shapeshifter's skull with the wrench.

Brian lurched forward, landing on all fours. The no-longer-shifters honed in on their incapacitated target, intent on finishing off their prey. But as Watchdog held the wrench overhead for a second strike, Brian rose to his feet and gripped the Watchdog's wrist, restricting his ability to attack, before palming him square in the chest, sending him flying backwards onto the stone floor. Brian's face was contorted in pain and confusion, touching the back of his neck to find his fingers stained in mercurial blood; but when he saw pure crimson drops trickling out of the Watchdog's mouth, whatever remained of Brian's acquired human identity was gone, revealing the brutally efficient machine underneath through his wrathful visage.

"Humans?" cried the Hybrid in shock.

No sooner could he assess the situation when Crow grabbed him from behind, putting him in a headlock and trying to wrestle him into submission; but Brian, being the more experienced fighter, managed to flip the human over his head, who fell with a thud. Crow slowed to a rise, his back electric with pain. Before him stood a creature stricken with fury and disorientation; but in the fleeting moment that Brian stared him on and summoned the pistol wedged in the back of his pants, Dan could have sworn he saw fear and the pain of betrayal in the Hybrid's blue eyes.

Then Watchdog suddenly swooped in with the wrench and struck Brian across the face with what strength he had left, and the Hybrid's face whipped hard to its right with a crunching sound, expelling a jet of silver from its mouth and letting the pistol slide across the floor. Brian retaliated almost instantly, kicking Gary in the knee, causing his leg to buckle. He then struck a blow to the human's face with the back of his hand. Without thinking, Dan came to his partner's aid, spearing the Shapeshifter to the ground, who let out a cry as they fell. The two wrestled briefly, and Dan positioned himself upon Brian's chest to let his fists fly, putting his weight into every blow. Dan continued to wail on him, intent on punching his face in, but then stopped and arose in disgust when he realized he actually _was_ punching his face in; the bones on Brian's face began to implode with a sickening crunch at every blow, becoming a twisted and barely recognizable, mercury-laced mass of wrinkled skin, with valleys and jagged peaks of displaced and decimated synthetic bone matter.

Dan ran his hands through his hair, breathing hard. Gary stumbled to his side, wiping the blood from his mouth with his sleeve, and they stared at Brian's inert body.

"Is he... dead?" asked Gary.

A small pool of mercury was forming around Brian's head. Was he dead? Was he ever alive to begin with, in the same way he and Gary was? He wasn't quite sure, but seeing the body lying there – and knowing that it was the instinctual bloodlust that possessed him that was the cause – left a uncomfortable knot in his stomach.

"I don't know," said Dan at length. "But we can't just stand here. The others are counting on us."

Dan took a few steps into the distance and picked up Brian's gun, which lay near the base of the tank, and handed it to Gary.

"Alright," said Dan. "I'm going back up to smuggle them in. You guard this place while I'm gone, and keep on the lookout in case someone else comes down here. If I don't come back with the rest of the team in fifteen minutes, then abandon the mission and get out of here as fast as you can. Got it?"

"Understood," said Gary.

Dan began to walk away, but Gary stopped him.

"This might be the last time we ever see each other, you know," he said. "So before you go, I just want to say that it's been an honour serving with you thus far, Crow."

"Uh, thanks," replied Dan. "It's been an honour for me, too."

They shook hands with great respect.

"You know," said Gary, "we Truth-Seekers spend our whole lives searching for the Truth, but the only Truth we ever _really_ needed to know was inside ourselves all along."

"Gee, thanks, Mister Miyagi," said Dan with a sarcastic edge.

"I always wanted to leave someone with some profound words of wisdom," said the Watchdog, smirking.

Dan nodded before turning to leave.

"Crow, wait!" cried Gary once again.

"_What?_" answered Dan. He was beginning to find Gary's incessant interpellations an annoyance.

"...You forgot the key."

"Oh, right," said Dan. "Thanks."

Dan went over to Brian's body, and, grimacing, searched his pockets, paranoid that the Shapeshifter would suddenly rise again and grip his arm. But thankfully, he didn't, and Dan removed the key, placing it in his coat pocket.

"I'll be back in a bit," said Dan.

"Good luck, Daniel Thompson," replied the Watchdog.

With the Titan Processing Plant secured, Crow sped off across the concrete expanse, disappearing back into the tunnels they had entered from. Once his partner was gone, the Watchdog readied himself, gripping the pistol tightly, all the while keeping an eye on Brian's body as it lay unmoving before the great glass tanks of the Omega Wave Titans.


	14. Chapter 13: The Deceived

Chapter 13: The Deceived

On the day of the transaction, Julian Klein was in Frankfurt.

Down the Gartenstrasse he went, following the voluptuous contours of the river Main that flowed under a half-clouded sky. The wind was that of frigid late November, crashing over his stubble-shaded face and wavy chocolate hair that swayed behind him in the draft. He buried his chin into his coat while he weathered the clutches of winter in contemplative solitude. Like the few souls that passed him now and again, he was deeply absorbed in his own thoughts, staring into space; unlike them, however, his were of a more sombre nature. He awoke at dawn that morning, preparing himself mentally and physically for what he had to do. His mind was now singularly focused, every sense sharpened by discipline and years of training. Although, sharp as they were, Klein's senses did not register everything that occurred around him; for little did Klein know that on that day, he had two shadows.

One was cast by the light of the eight o'clock sun, shining through the clouds whenever an opening formed in their canvas.

The other was Alfred Hoffman.

He followed Klein from a cautious distance, having removed his spectacles and donned a tuque to dissimulate his habitual appearance. After leaving Leipzig, Hoffman tailed Klein's vehicle to Frankfurt, where the latter procured himself a room at a hotel. When he was not following the Apotheosis agent around the city as he went to eat or sightsee, he would stake out Klein in his car, parked on the other side of the street before the hotel. He spent the better part of the past two days in that car, going so far as to sleep there as well. It was rough going, but he had suffered though worse before; the trenches of war make men of all who enter them.

On the dawn of the third day, Hoffman was starting to have his doubts. Perhaps Klein really was waiting to meet with this Xavier. Perhaps his convictions were ill-founded after all. But then he changed his mind; Klein was definitely hiding something, perhaps something big. He was more certain of this than any other thing in his entire life. Even the strong conviction he held in his ideals was drowned by the voice of his instincts resounding in his heart and mind. And when Klein exited the hotel that morning, brooding and resolute, Hoffman knew that this was the day he would expose him once and for all.

When exactly he would be exposing him for soon became the issue.

The walking signal flickered, and Klein crossed the intersection, followed by Hoffman fifteen seconds later. He had been on Klein's trail for well over forty minutes at that point. He was not as familiar with that part of Frankfurt, and for all he knew, they might very well be going in circles; however, this was the farthest Klein has strayed from the hotel yet, so he deduced that Klein must finally be ready to carry out whatever task compelled him to forsake Leipzig for Frankfurt. Alas, he still had no idea what this task could possibly comprise, and it continued to pester him as he followed Klein onto the Kennedyallee.

_Where, oh where are you taking me?_

While Hoffman wondered what was in store for him, the Witnesses were standing by, knowing exactly where Klein was headed.

"They are nearing the complex now," noted June into his MultiCell, gazing down from the rooftop he stood upon.

"Yes," agreed March, positioned down below, across the street from the establishment. "I can perceive Klein now."

Klein's temporal precursor began to manifest, a translucent humanoid tendril reaching out from beyond the corner of the adjacent street. It slithered on the sidewalk, weaving through the precursors of environing humans, before crossing the street in direction of the large complex that loomed before March. The Witness turned to see June, who had just rejoined him, and put away his own Cell.

"How are we to proceed?" inquired June. "It will be no easy feat to secure a passage for Hoffman."

"Possibilities abound at every turn," replied March. "We need only look in the right places. And if there are none, then we will simply have to sway things in our favour."

June said nothing, reflecting on March's words, the same words the Overseer had spoken to the Witnesses in their training. And March reflected as well; since departing from Leipzig, he had begun to recall many of the Overseer's teachings, seeking some morsel of wisdom, however small, that could aid him in his mission.

"For now, let us enter and analyze the premises," suggested March. "We must determine what variables we have to work with."

"Agreed," offered June.

June shifted near March's position, and the Aube Division Witnesses then crossed the street to enter the Robert Koch Institute.

A few minutes later, Klein appeared on scene, turning onto the street where a pair of suited men once stood. He carried onward along the sidewalk, weaving his way through environing strangers, before crossing the street in direction of the large complex that loomed before him. Hoffman came soon after, watching Klein scale the stone steps at the entrance. He stopped across from the building, speculating what kind of business Klein might have at the Frankfurt branch of the RKI, the nation's top authority in disease prevention and control. He began to narrow the possibilities, and the conjectures he formed held disturbing ramifications. With haste, Hoffman pressed on to the Institute.

The lobby was welcoming, if a bit aseptic and bureaucratic. The scheme was a soft white, with greys and purples appearing here and there, reflecting the colours of the organization's logo. Of wood there was also, mostly cedar and oak, adorning the frames of doors and the siding of walls. Hoffman paced forward with small steps on the white and grey tiles of the floor, looking around. He saw Klein in the distance, standing near a water dispenser, unassuming and indistinct.

Hoffman seated himself on some benches on the other side of the room, purposing to keep his eye on the Apotheosis operative. To his left sat a heavyset woman in her fifties, and to his right was a suited gentleman; Hoffman attributed his curious lack of eyebrows to some medical condition or other. Dismissing the odd sight, he returned his sights to Klein, who had yet to make a move. Klein's eyes seemed preoccupied with something, which Hoffman realized was the receptionist at the front desk. After some minutes, she left her station, and Klein pounced, taking advantage of her absence to slip away into a corridor leading to a wing whose access was prohibited to the public without valid reason or escort.

Hoffman rose from his seat, intent on continuing the hunt, when a black woman suddenly approached him, taking him aback.

"Excuse me, sir," she asked. "Can I help you?"

"Yes, actually," replied Hoffman, flashing his pearly whites. "Would you be so kind as to direct me to the men's washroom?"

"The washrooms are just around the corner," she answered, pointing to a passage beyond the lobby.

"Thank you, ma'am."

She continued along her way, and Hoffman lessened his forced smile. The encounter had left a slightly bitter taste in his mouth. He did not outright despise the Blacks or the Orientals or the Jews like many of his compatriots did; it was simply that the Aryan race was superior. It was the way things were, nothing more, nothing less. His views were not shared by the populace at large, he knew; they chose to continue contesting the natural order of things as it exists. He thought them all fools for being so wilfully blind. Do they also refuse to accept that the Earth is round, or that the sky is blue? He certainly did not. In fact, he found the fact that there was an underlying order to all things a reassuring one.

Still, that did not reduce his dislike of having to humour the prolonged company of Untermenschen.

Hoffman proceeded in the direction of the hallway, and when he was sure no staff members were watching, he veered the other way and followed in Klein's tracks. Though the halls there were empty, he nonetheless advanced carefully, not wanting to risk being caught. He inched around the corner, where Klein was strolling down the way with haste. Smirking, he resumed his course as soon as Klein disappeared into the next corridor.

The hunt was on once again.

When Hoffman left the lobby, the Witnesses rose from their seats.

"Should we follow them?" asked June.

"I do not think we should," said March. "If we follow Hoffman, he may detect our presence, jeopardizing our mission."

"And yet, we must still keep them under observation," reminded June. "How are we to achieve this without being in their general vicinity?"

"Remember," replied March after a moment, "we need only look in the right places."

The Witnesses stood in the center of the lobby, tilting their heads in search of something useful.

"There," said June.

March turned his head in the same direction as June's. Affixed to the upper corner of the chamber was a small security camera.

"We can use the security network in this building to monitor them from afar," said June.

"First, making the receptionist depart," began March. "Now this. You surely are full of good ideas on this day, June."

"I suppose so," said June. "Now it is simply a matter of finding the room where they monitor the camera feeds. I will send a request to the Proxy Network to pull the blueprints of this establishment for us."

"That will take too long," noted March. "We must reach this room quickly if we are to respond to any unforeseen developments that may occur."

"Then how will we find it?" asked June.

"Let us ask the receptionist," suggested March. "She will certainly be of some assistance."

June and March approached the reception counter, where the woman that left before was now present.

"Good morning, sirs," she said. "How can I help you?"

March finished inputting a code into his MultiCell before answering.

"We were wondering if you could take a look at this."

He held the circular screen before her eyes. A string of coloured dots flashed in rhythmic succession.

Green, green, green, red. Green, green, green, red.

At the sight of the WOE Pattern, the woman was confused, but she became enamoured by the soothing lights and before long, she had fallen into a hypnagogic trance. Her eyelids closed halfway, and her head drooped forward a bit.

"Listen to my voice, and my voice alone," ordered March. "When I count to three, you will be under my complete command. One...two...three."

The woman redressed her posture, looking straight ahead with no particular expression.

"Good," requested March. "Reveal to me the location of the security camera monitoring station."

"...The monitoring room is on the third floor," she began sleepily. "In the western wing of the building. Room ...2113."

"You will forget having ever seen or spoken to both me and the individual standing to my side," resumed March. "In precisely one minute, you will regain full cognition and resume your usual activities as though nothing out of the ordinary had occurred."

"...Yes."

"Thank you for your assistance," said March. "Goodbye, now."

"...Ha-have a nice day, gentlemen."

The Witnesses then left the Lobby. Following the signs, they made their way to the third floor, where they found the security room after wandering around for a little bit. The door was locked by keypad; it opened after June energized the lock with his thumb, thereby removing the need to figure out the code. As soon as they entered, the security personnel seated at the monitoring station rose to their feet.

"What do you think you're doing?" asked one of the guards. "This area is off limits!"

A few swift, well-placed strikes later, all three guards laid on the floor in unconsciousness.

As June dragged the limp bodies to the corner, March approached the monitoring station. The screens were plentiful, taking up most of the wall. He scanned every screen, and in seconds, he was able to make out the relationship between each display, thereby creating a mental three-dimensional map for the entire Institute. Glancing to the lower corner, he spotted Julian Klein; the figure walked down a hallway on the blue-tinted display.

"I can see them," said March to his partner. "They must be a few levels beneath the ground by now."

"They are moving along at a steady rate," stated June. "I suppose all that is left for us to do is watch –"

The Witness silenced himself, and both watched the many screens. A patrol officer suddenly appeared and spotted someone just as he vanished into the next corridor.

"Someone has discovered Hoffman," noted June. "We must ensure his subterfuge. I will go."

March stopped him.

"No," he said. "I wish to go instead."

"I think it would be better if I went instead of you," insisted June, acknowledging his colleague's predisposition for failure.

"You must understand," said March, blocking June's way as he moved away from the consoles. "The Irregularity was of my doing, and the burden of its reparation falls upon me. You stay here and disable the alarm systems and all cameras save those watching Klein and Hoffman so that I can remain unobserved. I will go there and lead the guards away from them."

"Are you certain of this?" asked June.

"I must do this," said a resolute March.

"...Very well," replied June at length. "I will remain here. Hurry."

June took control of the monitoring station, switching off the camera feeds and disabling alarm systems. Once that was done, March turned, and in the blink of an eye, the Witness found himself in the lower levels of the Institute, near Hoffman's current location. Moments later, the officer came around the corner, and this time he was certain that an unauthorized person was lurking in the Restricted Levels. He was about to pursue the man when someone tapped him on the shoulder. He pivoted to see a different individual, this one wearing a lavish suit.

"Who are you?" asked the officer suspiciously in his German tongue.

"The face of your mother is appalling," replied the suited man without expression.

"What did you just say?"

"I do not think that you are beautiful."

The officer grimaced, both confused and indignant. The suited man then shoved him in the chest, causing the officer to stumble backward.

"Sir, you're going to come with me," declared the officer angrily after regaining his footing, not too pleased with the suited man's attitude.

But as he came in to detain him, the suited man shoved him again, harder this time, and the officer fell to the ground. His detainee then started down the hallway, running with a gait that suggested that he wasn't used to such an activity.

"This is Officer Lange," spoke the officer into his transceiver. "Code 15 in progress! Suspect is in B-level, heading for the research facility. Requesting immediate assistance!"

Then Officer Lange ran down the hall in pursuit of his suspect, who was standing at the mouth of the next one.

"You are incompetent in a wide range of activities," announced the suited man before disappearing into the next corridor.

March's plan seemed to be working. If anything, humans were easily agitated, especially when told things that they knew to be false. With continued derision, the Witness would surely be able to keep them distracted and focused on him. And unlike them, he would never tire, so exhaustion would not be a problem. But that did not prevent him from progressing with great prudence. He could not afford to get cornered, and neither could he cause too big a commotion, as it could indirectly impede Klein and Hoffman's progress. He wasn't sure how long he would have to keep up his act, nor how long he would be able to; but he resolved himself not to allow such uncertainties deter him. It was imperative that he succeed, lest the Directive stray even further.

After narrowly evading a second patrol officer who had come to intercept him, March wished for them to hurry themselves.

Though Hoffman did not know it, he was currently on C-level, the lowest floor of the Institute. He was surprised that no one had spotted them yet, but he did not complain, either. The amount of doors requiring passwords were cropping up at an exponential rate. And yet, Klein was somehow able to open them all. Hoffman quickly found out why that was; whenever such Klein came upon such a door, he would pull out a small piece of paper and input the codes scribbled upon them. Klein pressed the keys slowly enough so that Hoffman could memorize and replicate the codes, even if he screwed up the sequences once or twice once in awhile.

They eventually came upon another set of reinforced doors; large letters were stencilled overhead.

_QUARANTÄNE-BEREICH  
><em>

Hoffman's eyes narrowed as the context of the situation crystallized. After Klein had entered, he went to the door and input the code, succeeding on his second attempt, closing the door behind him just as personnel came around the corner.

He found himself in a long passage, where the doors were spread far apart from each other. He inspected the glass slit in the first door, and saw that the room on the other side was spacious, with various tables and surgical tools and medical equipment lain around in an orderly manner. Hoffman continued down the way, unsure of what he would find. All of the doors he encountered were locked; he began to wonder whether Klein had already entered one of these rooms, thus barring him access. However, turning right into a new hallway, he spotted an open door, jutting out slightly from its emplacement in the wall. Crouching, he approached it and slipped inside.

The room was just as large as the others. He soon discovered that it was also being kept refrigerated, and the air around was very cool. The most noteworthy aspect of all, however, were the many wide metal tables that took up most of the room's space. On each one were white drapes covering something that caused them to rise up. He ventured near one of these tables, and removed the drape, uncovering a severely bloated, deformed human face in the process.

He winced at the troubling sight, then unveiled the table. The rest of the corpse was revealed, naked and unusually fleshy; it was as though the body was entirely devoid of bones.

He was standing in the room housing the victims of the Römerberg Slush Gas demonstration.

Hoffman replaced the drape on the vaguely feminine mound of flesh. Hoffman continued his slow, analytical tour of the tables. He couldn't fathom what Klein wanted with any of the bodies; but if the apparent Apotheosis agent was willing to sneak into a restricted area, then whatever it was, it must have been very important.

As he walked, he saw an arm dangling from underneath one of the drapes. Curious, he unveiled the corpse. Upon closer examination, Hoffman was surprised to see that it belonged to one of the Apotheosis members who did not make it out of the Römerberg on that fateful day. He was about to cover him up when he noticed something out of place on the man's hand. He twisted the blubbery mass to ceiling, and what he saw shocked him.

On the man's palm was a fresh incision, cut from one end to the other.

His face mired into a terrible scowl, knowing full well what it represented. He then sensed something moving behind him, and turned about, where Klein was waiting for him, ready to stab Hoffman with a blooded scalpel. He brought it down, and Hoffman was just barely able to prevent the hit from connecting.

"NSA _Mischling_!" cried Hoffman in rage.

The two wrestled for control, knocking tables around as they waltzed around the room in a dance of death. Hoffman switched his grip, twisting Klein's wrist and forcing him to relinquish the scalpel. Klein delivered a kick to Hoffman's gut, breaking the hold they had on each other. Hoffman attempted to draw his Walther P38 – the P38 that has served him so well over the years – but Klein, seeing this, unexpectedly grabbed one of the drapes covering the bodies and tossed it in Hoffman's direction, distracting him long enough so that he could come in and tackle Hoffman to the ground and causing the P38 to slide across the floor.

Klein gripped Hoffman's throat, strangling him; the latter's face veered crimson, veins protruding on his forehead as he gripped and tugged at Klein's collar.

"_Ver...dammt..._" said Hoffman through clenched teeth.

His vision was beginning to blur, and the urge to breathe was growing stronger. With all his strength, he reached out to the scalpel lying on the floor, and with great effort, thrust into Klein's thigh. The NSA agent roared in pain, and Hoffman exploited the opening to push Klein off of him. Both stumbled to their feet, Hoffman coughing and massaging his neck while Klein staggered due to his injured leg. Seeing the Old World ambassador armed, he removed a sharp utensil of his own from a nearby tray. They encircled each other, thrusting into thin air to throw the other off.

Hoffman then lunged at Klein, who stepped to the side and slashed Hoffman's cheek with his weapon. Klein struck again, but Hoffman caught his hand. They struggled, hands high up the air, until Hoffman pulled them down, reversing the guard. He pulled down again, then smacked Klein's hands away. With Klein's hands in the air from the force of the blow, Hoffman grabbed Klein's collar and began to push him forward, catching the NSA operative off guard by the suddenness of the move. They ran in unison across the room until Klein was pinned to the wall, Hoffman's scalpel carried into Klein's sternum with the unadulterated might of their combined momentum.

Hoffman exhibited a sadistic smile as Klein slunk to the ground, grimacing and clutching his shirt. But then, Klein began to chuckle.

"You're... too late," said Klein in a rasped voice. "The NSA already knows. The days of the Old World... are over."

Klein laughed again, spurting up blood from his smiling lips. Hoffman, realizing what he meant, immediately took out his phone. A few moments passed, and the man on the other end responded.

"The NSA is onto us!" spoke Hoffman. "The transaction has been compromised. You must get out of there, now!"

He terminated the call, breathing hard. Then he looked down on Klein, who was warring with the pain that assailed him.

"You can't save them now," said Klein weakly, laughing.

Hoffman's eyes flared with a rage so terrible that Klein cowered where he sat.

"I have not lived this long to be mocked by the likes of _you_, Julian Klein!"

With blinding speed, Hoffman gripped the scalpel in his hand and planted it directly into Klein's gizzard. Dark red blood rained onto his hand and over Klein's clothing; chokes and gurgles resounded from Klein's mouth and severed windpipe as the undercover NSA agent writhed in agony. Hoffman held the scalpel in place, watching the life fade from his prey's eyes with animalistic delight. Only when Klein stopped moving entirely did Hoffman dislodge the tool from his throat. He then sat on the floor, catching his breath and wiping the blood from the gash on his right cheek.

He could not believe that they had been duped so easily. It was almost worse than when Dunham revealed himself as a mole in their ranks before fleeing back to ZFT. Still, gazing at Klein's slouched body, he could not help but smirk. He hadn't experienced such a rush in quite awhile. He silently saluted Klein in thanks for the ride, running his fingers across Klein's lids to pull them over his frozen eyes; he deserved that much, at the very least.

The Old World member then searched Klein's pockets, finding the Data Disk the NSA agent had retrieved from the boneless corpse of his acolyte. Afterward, he sliced Klein's own palms open to remove his Disk, and then proceeded to crush both Disks under the sole of his foot. The ritual over, he cleaned himself up as best as he could using the material available to him, retrieved his P38, and left the Quarantine Area, glad that he made it out alive to fight yet another day.

June watched Hoffman escape from the lower levels from the monitoring station. Hoffman's task was rendered easier due to the fact that all six of the patrol officers on duty that day were all busy chasing March around the B-Level; disabling the alarm systems further ensured that the incident would be constrained to the B-Level. June could see his partner gallivanting across the screens, deftly evading capture at the hands of the security personnel.

"You possess many characteristics of the opposing sex."

March then swirled around the officer, fleeing from his grip. He had been running for twenty minutes at that point. His temporal awareness allowed him to anticipate their every move, and he was therefore able to evade them with ease. However, manoeuvring the halls with six officers on this tail pushed the limits of his foresight. He used the RLTB when he could, but most of the time, they would observe the Witness before he could use it, thus locking him in place and making things more difficult than it would be otherwise.

As he hopped over an officer than had tripped, his MulitCell began to vibrate.

"Hoffman has left the premises," said June's voice on the other end. "You may leave now."

Upon hearing this, March immediately changed his strategy, bolting down the passage, turning. The officers pursued him from close behind.

And when they cut around the corner, their interloper had all but disappeared.

Little did they know that the suited man was now standing outside the Robert Koch Institute, overlooking it from a rooftop standing across the street. June was already there waiting for him after he shifted his location there following the brief moment of being unobserved in the B-Level corridors.

"Did Hoffman succeed?" inquired March.

"I have just now contacted August and October," explained June. "They confirm Hoffman's success in alerting the Old World Society of the NSA threat."

"Excellent," said March. "Then the mission has been accomplished."

A great relief arose within him. The burden of the Irregularity's reparation was lifted from his shoulders. He had redeemed himself from his mistake, and everything would soon return to routine, to the way they should be.

Down below, the humans were as dots, insect-like in stature. Among this dynamic mosaic, the Witness made out Hoffman's limping form, shrinking in the distance. He watched him until he faded from view entirely, a thought occurring to the Witness as he did. He turned his head to June.

"...Thank you, June," he said after many moments of shared silence.

"For what?"

"For assisting me in repairing my mistake."

June titled his head, then resumed analyzing the horizons, having apparently accepted the compliment. June, Alfred Hoffman, January; according to his calculations, the chances of March restoring things to the way they were supposed to have been were slim. But by the cumulative power of the Witnesses, they managed to pull it off.

For they were agents of the League of the Witnesses, and for the last several millennia they have been watching over all things, laying the foundations for the river of time and guiding entire histories on the path they were meant to travel.

As one, they could not fail.

"Shall we find something to eat?" asked June at length. "I am hungry."

"There is a pastry shop in Offenbach," said March. "The chocolate éclairs they serve there are most delicious. Meet me at the Schillerplatz, and I will show you where it is."

June walked past March and shifted to Offenbach. And soon after, so did March, and the Aube Division Witnesses began to walk eastward at a leisurely pace. The hardest part of the mission was past, and the task his Crépuscule colleagues now faced were far less complicated than what he had to go through.

They would surely be able to handle it without any trouble.

* * *

><p><em>AN: For those who might have been surprised by Hoffman's racist views, you should remember that he is an immortal Nazi. And as a disclaimer, I do not share his views, on the off chance someone thought I might._


	15. Chapter 14: Ménage à Trois

Chapter 14: Ménage à Trois

Preparations began at noon.

The freighter arrived at the Baltimore port at sun's zenith. The stevedores began to unload the vessel's cargo with their great cranes and machinery. The freight containers were stacked into towers, where they would stay until they could begin the next segment of their journey. Many of these containers would be transferred onto transport trucks, and after being processed through the dock's checkout stations, the trucks would depart on their long and lonesome roads.

One such truck left now, hauling its load through the gate and heading south. It rode for several hours into the afternoon until reaching the city of Philadelphia, its final destination. Despite this, it continued fifteen minutes past the city, driving onto the asphalt strip of an old hangar lying just beyond the limits of the city. Here, the freight container was opened by men who were waiting at the hangar, and its contents – crates of wine – were moved, one by one. However, these crates of wine borne of Italian vineyards were of no importance; it was the stack of crates hidden at the very back of the container that the men sought, placed behind the inconspicuous shipment of wine as a precautionary measure.

These special crates, which housed something that most definitely would not have been approved by customs were they not concealed, were wheeled by trolley into the hangar's interior. This hangar was filled with many crates and containers, as these men used it frequently for similar activities. By dusk, the shipment of Slush Gas had been stockpiled into the central space of the hangar, and the men settled down, standing guard outside the structure.

By midnight, the others began to arrive.

The first party to show up was the Old World Society. Adam Markstrom, Quentin Slater, Laurence Bordeaux, and many other high-ranking Old World delegates parked their vehicles in the large lot, though Alfred Hoffman was not among them; he apparently had some business to tend to in Frankfurt. While Adam thought it a shame that he chose to miss the transaction, he paid little mind to it. Hoffman had already contributed enough by setting up the meeting and vouching for the quality and reliability of the shipment, so he figured that Hoffman had earned himself some time off.

The Apotheosis members made their appearance a few hours later, following their Old World-provided escorts to the site. Vasiliy Ivanenko, Guillermo Castillo, Harlan Frost; the majority of the higher-tier players were there, save Julian Klein and Xavier Torre, who were currently meeting in Frankfurt. Once they emerged from their vehicles, both factions neared each other in formal greeting, each being encircled at a respectable distance by a crew of armed men.

Last, but not least, came the Witnesses.

They positioned themselves at the edge of the woods, arriving with three minutes to spare. From there, the gaping entrance to the hangar could easily be identified in the darkness of night as a result of the lights emanating from within.

"We have arrived," noted October.

"Yes, but just barely," retorted August. "If we had not stopped so that you may procure yourself coffee, we would have arrived sooner. We should have shifted here directly from the Subway Station as I had suggested."

"I thirsted," justified October. "Besides, what is important is that we have reached our destination before the transaction begins."

"In any case, we do not have much time," reminded August. "How shall we proceed?"

October took out his specs to scan the area with its multiple filters.

"I see one of the NSA agents," he announced.

August summoned his own pair to verify the claim, and saw a man lying at the edge of the forest across the field, glowing yellow-white under the Thermal Filter.

"I suspect that he is acting as a scout for the rest of the squad," said October. "I will stay out here and keep watch of the NSA's movements. You should head inside to observe the meeting proper."

"Agreed," said August.

With the click of a button, August scanned the hangar through an X-ray filter, gathering a sense of what was inside. The recon finished, he closed his eyes and shifted to the location he had chosen, behind some of the crates inside the structure. There was a slit between the stacks where he hid, and the Witness peered through; the view wasn't quite optimal, but there were few suitable places to hide in the confines of the hangar, so he contented himself to the partial view of the Slush Gas containers and the many individuals present in the area.

A table was set up before the bio-weapon shipment while the last of the introductions were made. The table was used as the point of negotiation for both parties, and their representatives now converged to it, standing on either side.

With everything set, the transaction was underway.

"Right, gentlemen," said Adam. "Let's get down to business. Have all canisters been accounted for?"

"Yes," said Vasiliy. "Our men have verified that each canister has remained intact during the transportation period. As for the quality of the order, your man Hoffman has already inspected them, so I assume you will take his word for it, though I can also assure you that there is nothing to worry about."

"Excellent," replied Adam. "There is also the matter of the weapon's formula. I assume you have it at the ready."

A man passed a briefcase to Harlan Frost, who stopped before the table and opened it, showcasing its contents.

"As per the terms of agreement, you will find in this briefcase the formula for replication," explained Frost, a man of English ancestry. "Also included are two small vials of the substance in its natural liquid form, as well as a few samples of human bone tissue that has been affected by the weapon for study."

"_Very_ nice, Mister Frost," said Adam, eyeing the comprehensive set as one would gaze upon the rarest of gems. "If you don't mind, Mister Bordeaux will take a look at these now."

"Not at all," conceded Frost, taking a step back from the table.

Laurence Bordeaux, a man with great expertise in biochemistry and molecular biology, as well as having a seat on the Old World's scientific oversight committee, approached the table and began reading the document outlining the formula's ingredients and replication procedures.

"Well?" asked Adam after some time.

"It's authentic," assured Bordeaux, grinning. "And impressive too, I might add."

He slid the document back into its orange folder and handed it to Vasiliy, who placed it inside the briefcase. The case was closed shut and given to one of the nondescript, low-ranking Apotheosis members standing at the edge of the proceedings.

During this time, August placed a call to October.

"What is the current progress of the NSA?" he asked in a low voice.

"They are mobilizing as we speak," replied October.

August terminated the call, resuming his watch of the sale. His thoughts turned to his colleagues in Sector Beta. Their entire operation depended on the efforts of March and June, who were currently attempting to warn Hoffman of Klein's deception. In his temporal sights, he could perceive the precursors of the NSA squad members storming the scene, an event that was set to occur in approximately seven minutes. Checking his pocket watch, he was concerned that the Aube Division Witnesses would not be able to accomplish their goal in time.

"Now that the product has met your expectations," explained Vasiliy, "there is the matter of payment."

"Certainly," said Adam. "Mister Slater, if you will."

Quentin, along with two other lackeys, stepped forward, each carrying a briefcase. He placed the one he was carrying on the table, and took the other two one by one. Then, he opened the cases from left to right, revealing stacks of neatly arranged dollar bills.

"Here you are, gentlemen," said Quentin. "Two million for the canisters and the extra five hundred thousand as agreed, all in one hundred dollar bills."

Vasiliy and Guillermo took a gander at the large sum of cash with great delight.

"This is good," said Vasiliy. "We will count now, just to make sure. I hope you can understand."

"Of course, Mister Ivanenko," said Quentin. "Please, take all the time that is necessary."

The two Apotheosis agents then began the count. They first checked that the money was not counterfeit, and after being satisfied in these regards, took each individual packet of bills and flipped through them before placing them on the table while all the others stared on.

As the count continued, October contacted August.

"They are slowly surrounding the building," said the Witness. "Soon, they will have covered all the entrances."

August checked his surroundings using the X-ray filter; there were indeed heavily armed men moving about just outside the walls, preparing themselves to strike. The Witness focused his perception once more, but the fate of the weapons sale remained the same; all probable outcomes indicated the successful apprehension of both bio-terrorist factions by the covert NSA squad.

Time was running out.

"What should we do?" asked August. "The NSA squadron will strike in approximately three minutes."

"I am uncertain," said October. "The Non-Interference Protocol is not in effect, so perhaps we should eliminate the NSA agents before they strike."

"By engaging the NSA, we may alter the course of the transaction in ways that could conflict with the Directive," countered August. "There must be another option. Perhaps we should instead instigate a firefight between the Old World Society and Apotheosis. Since they would already be in battle, they would have a better chance at defending themselves against the NSA long enough to escape."

There was a pause on the other end as October considered the course of action.

"This could work," he said at length. "You would have to be swift, however."

"If I work fast, they will not even see me, let alone sense my presence," replied August.

Neither of them liked the option, but options were slim, and they would continue to narrow the longer it took the Aube Division Witnesses to complete their part of the operation. The sale in and of itself was not important; it was the survival of certain key members of both factions that was of interest to the Witnesses, and it was highly likely that some of their targets would be killed off in the coming confrontation.

"Very well, then," said October. "Still, we should wait a little longer. But in the event that the outcome is not changing, then we will have no choice but to enact our plan."

August continued to look on, preparing himself for the possibility of having to get involved, a possibility whose likelihood was increasing with every passing second. He knelt down at the edge of the stacks, slowly drawing his pistol as Vasiliy and Guillermo terminated the counting process.

"It's all here," noted Guillermo.

They replaced the money packets into the briefcase.

"We are satisfied," announced Vasiliy. "The weapon is all yours."

"Splendid!" said Adam, clasping his hands.

The two approached to shake hands, a gesture to seal the deal.

"I hope you find the opportunity to put the weapon to good use," said Vasiliy.

"Oh, I'm sure we will," replied Adam. "In any case, it's been a pleasure doing business with you. Who knows, perhaps we'll have the honour of meeting each other again on the battlefield someday."

Vasiliy smirked, sharing the sentiment; neither was naive enough to believe that business would change the fact that they were rivals, and that they would eventually be forced to destroy one another if somebody else hadn't done them in first.

After this exchange, Adam ordered his men to begin securing the shipment for transport.

Quentin then approached him.

"Who would have thought that Hoffman had such good taste?" noted Quentin.

"I suppose I'll have to give him my thanks when I see him again," said Adam. "Let's get these canisters out of here. I don't feel like sticking around here all night."

Quentin nodded in acquiescence before taking his leave to oversee the retrieval of the canisters.

August peered out a little. The outcome wasn't changing. He could not wait much longer; the NSA squad members were now in place, waiting on the word of their commander.

Adam summoned Bordeaux to his side, deliberating on their plans for the bio-weapon.

"If you'll excuse me," said Adam suddenly, removing his phone.

He distanced himself from the main area to take his call.

"Ah, Hoffman!" said Adam in delight. "How is Frankfurt?"

Hoffman told him how Frankfurt was.

After his colleague had finished speaking, Adam replaced his phone in his suit pocket. Bordeaux was rather concerned when Adam neared him with a most solemn of faces.

"What is it, Markstrom?" he asked.

Without stopping, Adam brushed him aside.

"We've been sold out."

Adam halted in the middle of the hangar and drew a handgun to the Apotheosis crew. The Old World's crew instantly aimed their own weapons when they saw their leader initiating possible hostilities, causing the men of Apotheosis to do the same. In moments, every man in the hanger had his gun drawn on the opposing faction, with Vasiliy being the last.

"What is the meaning of this?" cried the Ukrainian man, outraged.

Then Adam fired, but not at Apotheosis; he instead turned about and shot the first NSA agent to enter the building, and the others loyal to the Old World turned around as well, opening fire on the government operatives, who retreated. Apotheosis began to fire back at Frost's command, aiming to take out the NSA operatives both in the front of the building that were using their own cars as cover, or those flooding in the back through the rear entry.

None of them noticed the suited man moving into the fray with incredible speed, only to return to his original hiding place moments later when he realized that his colleagues have succeeded in their task. At this moment, June placed a call to August, asking him whether it was working. August confirmed the positive outcome of their efforts before placing a call to his fellow Crépuscule colleague.

"October," spoke August into his MultiCell. "March and June have succeeded."

"Affirmative. I will come inside to assist you in controlling the situation."

In an instant, October found himself on the opposite side of the hangar from where August hid, and both began to observe the unfolding bloodbath.

The NSA, while fewer in number, were heavily armoured and more organized, most of them placed behind the vehicles of the terrorist cells just outside the mouth of the open hangar. Near the mouth of the hangar was the Old World, defending two fronts; for as the firefight prolonged, members of both factions were inadvertently shot by the other, causing both to openly fire at the opposing group. Led by Vasiliy and Frost, Apotheosis engaged the Old World in the front and the NSA operatives tried to gain access through the back. Guillermo had escaped through the rear door and had made his way around to the front with a few of his men, using the transport truck as a shield while they attacked the NSA agents flanked behind their cars.

The Witnesses, impartial to the skirmish, mustered their collective focus in guiding the event along one of the near-infinite branches on its probability tree. With surgical precision, the Witnesses kept the multi-sided battle under control, letting things flow naturally and reining them in whenever the integrity of the Directive was threatened. August was pleased that their Aube comrades had achieved their goal, for if Hoffman's call had arrived but a moment later, the outcome would have become irrevocably unsalvageable; now the outcome had been steered in less grim direction.

It wasn't totally over, however, so the Crépuscule agents remained centered in their observation, especially as things veered into gradual chaos.

For soon, as their rosters dwindled, the factions lost coherency, and the three-way battle degenerated to a strategic mess, with all present simply trying to save their skins. The Witnesses tried to manage the situation from their hiding places, but with bullets streaming in all directions and people running everywhere, it became a gradually difficult feat.

Quentin reloaded his clip, staying close to Bordeaux. Clenching his teeth, he darted into the fray for more protective shielding behind some crates. But the moment he set foot beyond the safety of his temporary haven, he saw in the corner a familiar figure, crouching behind some crates. A suited man, bald, naked-browed.

..._The protectors..._

And that was his last thought, for October's presence distracted him long enough for an NSA agent to tally a clean kill by headshot, and Quentin fell to the floor, limp, with Bordeaux screaming his name and popping out of cover to avenge his death, killing the NSA agent that felled his ally.

It was at this moment that the Witnesses realized they had lost control.

August shifted to October's location.

"He spotted me as he was running," explained October. "I did not anticipate that he would, and could do nothing to prevent his death once he did."

"We must end this," said August. "Too many outcomes are forming."

"Yes, but how?" asked October, still distraught that he had allowed an important target to die.

August knelt still in mental calculation as the warlike cacophony blared around them. He watched as a bullet pierced a crate, and the solution came to him.

"I have an idea," said August, enlightened. "We must act quickly. Follow my lead."

August sped out from behind the crates, and October followed. They were moving extremely fast, but as they walked through the fray, everything around them from their perspective slowed to a near-total halt. Bullets lagged their way forward in the air. Armed men inched across the battlefield, their steps sluggish and prolonged, while smoke and debris clung to the air like ornaments. The Witnesses traversed through the carnage as space and time played itself for them frame by frame; when they encountered Vasiliy frozen in the air, bullet tearing through his chest, they picked up their pace.

They arrived at the Slush Gas shipment, which had been half-emptied before the NSA began their infiltration. August then slowed himself down a bit, causing things to speed up slightly in his eyes. He began to select some of the bullets that streamed through the air and gently altered their trajectory with a cup of the hand, sending them into the heart of the shipment instead. October, now understanding his partner's machinations, did the same. Their Pulse Pistols, though powerful, could only inflict blast damage, and were not very precise, whereas the bullets from the guns of the humans were small and compact, making it easier to pierce holes in the Slush Gas canisters.

They sped and slowed themselves at their discretion, since they had to wait for ammunition to come their way before steering them into the shipment. The billowing mass of the gaseous bio-weapon began leaking out of the holes in their holding crates, phantasmal fingers reaching out, impatient in their desire to ensnare all living things in their deathly grip. Once the canisters were sufficiently wrecked, the Witnesses moved away from the frozen cloud and shifted back into the forest surrounding the hangar.

The battle continued in that four second timeframe that began the moment the Witnesses set out from their hiding spot, and some could have sworn that they saw split-second ghosts flittering and dancing around the Slush Gas crates. They did not get to see much else, however, for the combined gases of six canisters rapidly expanded outward. Those closest to the shipment suffered the swift demineralization of their bones, dying in agony. The battle ceased entirely in seconds, and everyone in the hangar still unaffected by the invisible killer made for the exits. The Witnesses watched their movements closely, ensuring the survival of important players through probability manipulation as they fled the scene in their vehicles, moving far away from the smouldering grave of their fallen comrades.

The Witnesses remained until every last breathing man and woman escaped the premises, unsure whether they have succeeded or failed their mission, whether the Directive had been compromised. Without the Overseer to tell them, they had no choice but to depart through the Roads Less Traveled By, not knowing that they would soon find out the answer to their present questions and many, many more.


	16. Chapter 15: Down the Rabbit Hole

Chapter 15: Down the Rabbit Hole

The Bradford Diner, founded by a certain Preston Bradford, officially opened in the year 1964 in the city of Boston.

From there, word of the excellent quality of their All-American menu, particularly of their Cheeseburger Platters and Vanilla Blast Sundaes, spread quickly across town, and its reputation grew until it became known as the go-to place for a fast, satisfying meal. The diner's prestigious status as a staple of the neighbourhood was maintained through successive generations, with Preston's ownership of the diner passing down unto his son, Jefferson, and then to his own son, Horace, the current proprietor of the establishment. For over fifty years, the Bradford family has been serving the city of Boston with meal after hearty meal. But the service of the Bradfords extended far beyond the limits of the city.

For unbeknownst to their clientele, the Bradfords served the entire world.

Horace was but a tyke of six when he first met the strange men, the men who dressed sharply and who talked and acted strangely.

The men who all looked the same.

On that day, one of these men approached him, and Horace stood back, clutching to his father's pant leg. The man then removed his funny hat and knelt to the boy's height, revealing his utter baldness.

"What is your name, child?" asked the suited man.

Horace said nothing, too distracted by his interlocutor's appearance.

"Go on," said Daddy. "It's alright."

"...Ho-Horace," said the boy. "My name is Horace."

"Hello, Horace," replied the suited man. "My name is Mister Wright."

There were six of them in all, and they would come to the diner every once in awhile. Sometimes they would come to eat. They would order large meals only to devour them in little time – for a long time, little Horace pictured them with vacuum cleaners hidden in their mouths. And they would then leave, with Mister Wright thanking Daddy for the excellent meal before leaving a wad of cash on the table.

Other times, Daddy would give them a special little key he kept in the cash register, and Mister Wright would lead his friends in the freezer room, and they would disappear for several minutes before coming back out. And once again, Mister Wright would thank Daddy for his services, and the suited men with the briefcases would drive away in their shiny black cars.

"Hey, dad," began a twelve year-old Horace a few hours after Mister Wright and his friends had left. "Where does the freezer room lead to?"

After preparing themselves Vanilla Blast Sundaes, Jefferson Bradford took his son and had him sit by the window, and he told Horace the tale that was passed down to him by his own father, Grandpa Preston.

"You see," began Jefferson, "it all started long ago, before Grandpa Preston even built the diner. One day, a man named Mister Wright visited him at his home –"

"How old was Mister Wright?" asked Horace.

"I don't know. I've known them since I was seven myself, and they haven't aged a day."

"How is that even possible?"

"These men are not ordinary men, son. They're the protectors of this world."

"Whoah! Really?" exclaimed Horace, rapt.

Jefferson nodded.

"When Mister Wright visited Grandpa Preston many years ago, he told him that he already knew he was planning to build a diner one day, and that because of this, he wanted to make him an offer. Grandpa Preston was awfully surprised, and he asked this Mister Wright how he knew that, but Mister Wright said that wasn't important. Mister Wright then asked him if he would meet with Mister Richards, their boss, to do some business with him. So Grandpa Preston accepted, and the next day they picked him up and brought him to meet with Mister Richards.

"They stopped at a building, then went up to a big, empty room. There, Mister Wright introduced him to Mister Richards; but Grandpa Preston was confused, because there was no one there. 'Where is he?' he said. 'He is standing right there,' pointed Mister Wright. But he was pointing at the wall, and Grandpa Preston got mad because he thought they were playing a joke on him.

"He was about to leave the room, but then he heard a great, powerful voice call his name. 'Who are you?' asked Grandpa Preston. 'No need to fear, Preston,' replied the voice in his mind. 'I am Mister Richards.' He felt a sudden presence in the room, then he looked at the wall, and he squinted real hard, and he could have sworn that he saw the faint outline of a tall man standing where no one was standing before. Mister Richards told him that he and his associates worked day and night to keep everyone in the world safe; and Grandpa Preston knew in his heart that Mister Richards was telling the truth. Mister Richards then said that he had chosen Grandpa Preston for a very important task, and that they needed his help to protect the world. And Grandpa accepted, because he was a good person, and he too wanted to help protect all the people on this Earth.

"So when he built the diner, he helped Mister Richards and his friends build a special room in the diner, a room only they could travel to, where they could go and discuss new ways to continue keeping the world as it should be. When the diner was finally finished, Mister Richards came to Grandpa Preston, and told him that from now on, the Bradford family would have to keep the diner safe so that he and his friends could keep on doing their job. And so did Mister Richards leave, but not before giving him a very important key."

Thus did young Horace come to learn of the great responsibility that his father and his father before him had been entrusted with. And when Jefferson Bradford passed the key down to his son at his deathbed, shortly before dying of cancer, Horace readily accepted, ready to carry on the duties his family have upheld for half a century.

In 2008, snow began to fall, the snow of mid-solstice, sprinkling down from the heavens. Horace sighed, noting how the winter always spelled fewer customers, before continuing to wipe the tables. He had been the heir of the Bradford Diner for over thirty years now. But alas, he had no son to whom he could pass on his legacy; he couldn't love again, not after his wife had perished in that terrible fire. He was growing old now, and was starting to worry. It was also getting harder not to succumb to cynicism; the world was dark place nowadays, and he sometimes wondered if Mister Wright and his buddies were actually doing their job.

But when the six of them came in that afternoon, with their stoic faces and straightened postures and eyes that saw everything, he knew that the world was in good hands, and he relinquished the key a little less worried than he was before, knowing that the world would be an even darker place without them. Unlike Horace, however, the protectors of the world did not sense their own apprehensions diminish.

For Mister Richards had summoned them to Council.

The Witnesses of the Crépuscule Division entered the secret door in the freezer room Preston Bradford had helped build many years ago. September closed the door behind them as they descended into the cellar in single file. The Overseer had returned from his sojourn into Potential States two weeks after they had corrected the Irregularity, and had issued a Council Summoning shortly after setting foot back in Für Immer. They had been anticipating such a meeting for some time, as the Overseer ordinarily called them to Council after his expeditions. He would no doubt bring up their recent endeavours in repairing the Irregularity, and each Witness formulated their own ideas about how the meeting would proceed.

They entered the cellar and shifted to the Council Chamber, hanging up their hats and taking their seats at the obsidian roundtable. After the Taffy was activated, December removed the newly-repaired Holo-Conference Module from his briefcase and placed it in the middle of the table. The other agents watched in curiosity as their Arbiter adjusted the large disk-like object, mesmerized by its design, as only September and the Arbiter had seen it before.

Soon enough, the holographic projectors became active. Around the circumference of the module were the light-blue holographic representations of the six Witnesses of the Aube Division, seated in their chairs at the Aube Council Chamber in Sector Beta, with the Crépuscule module acting as their table. The central projector, meanwhile, emitted the insignia of the League, which hovered over the module, a symbol known to them as the Eye of the Universe. It was the symbol found in the corner of their Spec Interface, the covers of their MultiCells, on the walls within Für Immer, and on many objects that belonged to the Witnesses.

It took the form of a circle touching the inner circumference of a larger one at a shared point, representing That Which Is Probable within That Which Is Possible; the point of convergence of these two circumferences symbolized the point of view of the Witnesses. Two smaller circles were symmetrically juxtaposed outside the circumferences of the central circles, in either of the lower quadrants, representing both of the League's Divisions. And directly underneath the central circles were three small vertical lines, which the Overseer said were meant to represent something he called the Third Construct.

The Eye rotated slowly in the skyward beam of blue light, placing the room in an eerie glow once the chamber's lights were put out. December took his seat, their chamber now calibrated to that of their fellow Division. The Overseer then spoke.

"Can everyone hear me?"

The voice that spoke was an artificial one, electronic in tone. It sounded as though many people were speaking simultaneously, though there were hints of the Overseer's true voice in the audio patterns.

"Yes," affirmed the miniaturized projection of January. "We can hear you."

"Ah, splendid," replied the Overseer. "I can see that these modules were a great investment. Now I won't have to send you all pigeons and parchment the next time I need to relay urgent messages."

There was some humour in his voice, but the Witnesses failed detect it.

"How was your expedition, Mercedony?" inquired December.

"It was very productive, actually. I visited seven Potential State. The most intriguing one was a State where the planet is under the subjugation of the Chinese Empire. What I have seen there has given me new ideas, including possible Pulse Pistol upgrades."

The Witnesses all exchanged glances of pleasant surprise. Then the Overseer began to speak in a more serious tone.

"I will tell of the things I have in mind at a later time," he said. "Let us now move on to more important matters. I have reviewed the reports of your activities during my absence. And, as it would seem, an Irregularity formed while I was away."

"...Yes," began January in a hesitant tone. "An Irregularity indeed occurred. It was a result of our lack of discipline..."

All eyes passed momentarily on March.

"...but we were able to correct it, and events are now on their proper course as per the Directive."

"I am not particularly pleased that you allowed our Proxy liaison in the Old World Society to die," reproached the Overseer with moderate annoyance. "It is a very difficult and lengthy process to have one of our Proxies successfully infiltrate and become integrated in an organization of interest, especially those at the heart of the Silent War. Now we will have to rely on external monitoring, and that is a far less thorough method of surveillance."

The Witnesses cast their eyes down as their leader bore his wrath upon them.

"However," continued Mercedony in a lighter tone, "even with this minor setback, I must say that I am impressed. You have managed to form a contingency plan and implement it without my guidance, correcting the Irregularity on all your own. I am proud of all of you, my Witnesses. And especially of you, March; though you may have been at fault, you were able to rectify your mistake and allow the course of things to resume the path mandated by the Directive. Well done."

Their spirits soared; to have the Overseer give them praise was the greatest privilege they could think of. March was the most content of them all, relieved that the Overseer had pardoned him; September was satisfied to hear this as well. However, the questions he had for his superior burned strongly within him. As the meeting went on, in which the Overseer relayed their schedule for the coming weeks, September grew increasingly restless, until he could say silent no longer.

"Mercedony," began September after a brief moment of silence on the Overseer's part.

"Yes, September?"

"I have some... questions I would like to ask you," the Witness said uneasily.

They all turned their attention to September, intrigued by their colleague's sudden query.

"I imagine you have already read in my report for the Beacon assignment, and by extension, my reports on the unidentified individual October and I encountered whose appearance and abilities are similar to our own. Do you know anything about this man or his whereabouts?"

October turned his head to September, then back to the module, also awaiting an answer. But no answer came; there was only silence.

"Surely, you must know something," said September, with a hint of exasperation in his tone.

An even longer silence passed before the Overseer spoke.

"...Yes," he began gravely. "I know who he is."

Their collective eyes flashed, and continued to be widened as the Overseer continued with great reluctance.

"The individual you saw at the Kings Cemetery...he is but one of many. Together... they comprise a group known as the Brotherhood of the Guardians."

The name caused an uneasy tension to fill both Council chambers.

"They are led by a powerful entity who calls himself the Caretaker," said the Overseer. "He is my equal in every way, and he has been my adversary for several thousand years, long before I created the League of the Witnesses."

The Witnesses could not believe their ears. There was someone as powerful as the Overseer in Existence? They could not fathom what this Caretaker was like.

"The Caretaker created the Guardians as a response to the Witnesses," continued the Overseer. "He tried to recreate the Witnesses by fashioning a copy of the Beacon – whose energy of which you were created – but he could not replicate it perfectly. So like you, the Guardians are only partially bound to the Equation. That is why you have been unable to sense their presence thus far, and likewise, they cannot detect us in their own perception. And as for the Caretaker, his impartiality to the Equation is quasi-total, much like myself."

September recalled how the man – the Guardian – at the cemetery was almost invisible to his temporal awareness. It was a most bizarre sensation, as only his fellow Witnesses had appeared in such a way to his eyes up to that point. Mercedony pursued his discourse.

"However, due to the imperfect nature of his device, the Guardians are not quite as impartial to the Equation as you are. So they cannot perform some of abilities you possess, such as your RLTB method of travel. But even so, they nonetheless pose a great threat."

"Why have they not shown themselves before?" asked October, who was the only one of the Witnesses who could manage to speak through their respective disbelief.

"The Guardians have always operated in the shadows," said the Overseer. "And, as far as I can tell, the Caretaker has forbidden his Guardians to interact with the Witnesses directly. Their goals are much different from our own. In fact, their agenda is in direct conflict with ours. For while we seek to prevent the Collision, the Brotherhood... seeks to accelerate it."

"What?" said December in a voice that was louder than he realized. "Why would they seek to do such a thing?"

"The Caretaker believes that what he is doing is for the benefit of both worlds. I have tried to dissuade him from pursuing these goals many times in the past, warning him that he could potentially destroy both worlds in the process, but the Caretaker is stubborn, and would not heed to my counsel. He and his Guardians have been undermining our efforts ever since, aiding in perpetuating the Silent War the humans are waging to accelerate the rate of the Veil's decay, the very thing we are trying to keep under our control and ultimately reverse."

The Overseer gradually destroyed their view of the world with every sentence. They were the League of the Witnesses, unopposed watchmen of realities for ages; yet all this time, a rival organization has been in direct conflict with them, causing them trouble they were not even aware of.

A moment of silence. The Overseer spoke anew, still hesitant.

"Just like you, they are able to observe and control the outcome of an Event, and have been doing so for as long as you have. I also suspect that they are responsible for most, if not all, of the Irregularities that have occurred thus far."

March was immediately enlightened. The force that conflicted with his observation, the dark shape he saw leaping from rooftop to rooftop in the Frankfurt skyline; a Guardian's own perception had interfered with his own and caused him to commit an Irregularity. And the others began to recall other Events they had observed, where an external pressure meddled with the courses of their respective Event, though none of them had lost control like March had. Not to mention the many instances where an insignificant moment spontaneously changed its outcome in nature without the influence of the Witnesses, which they were then forced to correct.

But whereas March was struggling to grasp the fact that the Irregularity was not entirely of his own fault, September's own hopes for retribution were shattered; for he could recall no such interference in the Irregularity he had caused on that night twenty-three years ago, and the realized that the sting of his mistake would remain forevermore.

The Witnesses remained unmoving, processing the great deal of information that had imparted onto them. After a time, September asked the question that occupied the minds of all the Overseer's agents.

The most important question of all.

"You knew all of this, yet you did not tell us," began the Crépuscule agent. "Why would you withhold such important information from us all this time?"

The others joined to September's initiative, voicing their own concerns in monotonous disharmony until the Overseer silenced them with his many voices.

"I had no choice! Your duties demand that you remain as objective and focused as possible so that the Directive may be carried out to its full extent. Now look at you, you are all upset. How are you supposed to perform your duties with such a great burden on your minds, distracting you, keeping you from making objective decisions and causing you to fail? I kept this from you so that we would have a fighting chance against the Caretaker and his Guardians."

Then the Overseer sighed heavily.

"But then again, I always knew that I would not always be able to keep you in the dark forever. Now that the Guardians have begun mobilizing after a period of relative inactivity, you were bound to find out anyway. It would appear that they are now actively attempting to capture the Beacon. September's sighting of a Guardian at the recent Beacon assignment has led me to suspect that the Guardians had hired the North Woods Group to capture the Beacon in the past two Beacon appearances. I do not yet know to what ends the Caretaker wishes to use the Beacon. But whatever his plans may be, the Guardians are now on the move, and they will undoubtedly begin to confront us head on. So prepare yourselves, my Witnesses; the fight for control over the fate of Existence has begun."

September's mind was numb with knowledge. So many answers were given, each spawning tenfold more questions. One of these questions he now asked.

"What of the man called Thomas Moroe?" he inquired.

"I have seen this man also," blurted August, which greatly surprised September. "On the subway train in the city of Philadelphia."

"As have I," said October. "I do not like this man much. He spoke to us about a pact that supposedly exists between us and his associates. He said the less we knew about it, the better things would be. Mercedony, do you know who this man is, or what this pact might be?"

"I know all about the Pact," said the Overseer with irritation in his many voices. "And while I don't know this Moroe, I am well acquainted with those he works with. But he was right when he said that it would be best not to concern yourselves with these matters."

"But Mercedony, we _must_ know –"

"Enough, September," silenced the Overseer. "I already fear that I have said too much for your own goods. Besides, it is a very long story, and we are short on time. We need to concentrate our efforts on what is to come, because things are about to change, and not for the better. But I promise you all that one day, when all of this is over, I will tell you everything, starting from the beginning."

The Witnesses acquiesced, calming down at the prospect of future answers. September thought long on what the Overseer said, and realized that he was right; what the Guardians were planning perturbed him greatly, to the point where he wondered whether it would interfere with his capability to carry out the Directive, the Overseer's meticulously-crafted plan for the restoration of both Sectors. He thought perhaps that he would have been better off not knowing the truth after all. But it was too late; he had been given the answers he sought. The only thing he could do now was to assimilate all of the Overseer words and use that information to his advantage, slim though it may be.

"Fret not, agents," said the Overseer. "We will take things as they come, as we have always done. But they will come swift and hard, so I will need you to remain as steadfast as ever. Together, we will prevent the Collision and preserve both Sectors, and vanquish the Caretaker and his Brotherhood once and for all. For we are the League of the Witnesses, and we _shall_ prevail. This Council meeting is now adjourned. Stay strong, my Witnesses."

The Eye of the Universe disappeared, collapsing into its black spherical projector. December then reached out and shut down the module, and the miniature Aube Division Witnesses seated around its base faded away. The Crépuscule Division then arose from their seats and left the Council Chamber. After November deactivated Taffy, they returned to the cellar, then to the surface, with December handing the key back to Horace on the way out from behind the counter.

"Hey, you guys look awfully grim," noted Horace as they exited behind the counter one by one. "Are you alright?"

But when they didn't answer, a pang of anxiety struck him. He watched them walk towards their black Bentleys before resuming his work. Wiping the last of the tables, he passed a glance out the window; it was snowing harder now, and the weather would probably become more severe over the next few hours. The Bentleys drove away from the lot, their black coats fading in the white haze.

"Oh, Mister Wright," muttered Horace, wiping the final table. "Things are about to get a whole lot worse, aren't they?


	17. Chapter 16: A Sheep in Wolf's Clothing

Chapter 16: A Sheep in Wolf's Clothing

He cursed under his breath as yet another crossroads presented itself.

There weren't any carvings on the wall showing him where to go this time, so Crow had to make his way back through the maintenance tunnels on intuition alone. He was initially distraught at the number of paths at his disposal, as it made the task of retracing his steps a challenging one, and his progression was slowed due to being unsure of himself. However, feeling his way forward, he began to notice that some of the contiguous passages were older than others, leading to grimy sewer tunnels that had been there long before the time of the Rickman Equipment and Supplies store. He theorized that when the Processing Plant was built, they connected the older tunnels to the newer ones, thereby connecting the Plant to the subterranean Shapeshifter network at large.

It was this discrepancy in age that Dan's new navigation strategy relied upon, reasoning that if he kept to the more recent corridors, he would still remain within the confines of the compound; at least, that was his hope. Alas, seeing as he had no other ideas on how to approach his escape to the surface, he had little choice but to trudge onward in the dimly-lit stone passages, armed with nothing but a segment of rusted pipe he found earlier which he had equipped as a precautionary measure.

His stratagem proved efficient, and once Dan started to recognize passages they had traversed earlier, he pressed on with renewed confidence. In little time, he found the steps leading to the red door with the First Wave insignia. He unlocked it with Brian's key, and proceeded up the stairwell. He soon found himself in the closet once more. He opened the closet door slowly, peeking through the crack, and, seeing no one, entered the storage area. There was no activity so far as Dan's senses could detect, so he abandoned the pipe in the closet and swiftly went out through the back door and into the night, though not before placing a small wooden block off to the side to keep the door wedged open.

A cool wind made the trees at the edge of the lot sway, causing their leaves to rustle. The lot was dark beyond the light of the lamp affixed above the door. He passed the dumpster, then took the long way around, sticking close to the fence until he made it to the perimeter's midpoint; one could never be too careful, he figured.

"Guys!" whispered Dan. "Is anyone there?"

When no one answered, Dan began to rattle the fence.

"Identify yourself!" said voice on the other side.

"Spock!" said Dan. "It's me, Crow."

"Crow!" exclaimed Spock. "Quick, hop over before anyone sees you!"

Dan scaled the fence and landed on the other side, where the rest of the team awaited. Enigma was leaning against the fence to his right, cigarette in his hand. To his left, Polaris stared at the shifting river, cross-armed in an effort to stave the cold. Some way down the path, the Druid was urinating into the Charles; his hunting rifle – which he insisted on bringing along – was strapped into his back. And a few feet past Polaris, there were the explosives, six duffel bags arranged in a row, with each housing several of her homemade satchel charges.

Noticing Crow's arrival, the others began to group around him. They were all clad in black; it made them look like bona fide resistance members. Although, they could just as easily have passed off as amateur bank robbers, thought Dan in bemusement.

"Where've you been, man?" asked Spock. "We've been waiting here for almost forty minutes. Did you guys secure the Titan site?"

"The Watchdog's down there right now, guarding the entrance," explained Dan.

"So, what's it look like?" asked the Druid.

"I hope you all brought an extra pair of underwear," was Dan's reply.

"I brought two, just to be safe," said Spock, head tilting to his backpack.

"Alright, enough standing around," said Enigma, stomping on his cigarette. "Crow, give us the low-down of the place, will ya?"

At Keane's behest, Dan proceeded to brief his crew on their plan of action, describing the layout of the site in detail and giving them a general idea on what to expect. Once the necessities were dealt with, Dan was entrusted with a handgun and a walkie-talkie, which he shoved into the inner pockets of his coat.

"Let's go," said Spock. "The final frontier awaits us."

Dan and Keane climbed the fence, and the others began transporting the bags over, narrated by Becca's periodic pleas to be careful. When all six bags were safely deposited on the other side, the rest crossed over. The Liberation Front followed the fence in single file, each one carrying a bag, and Nelson, being the strongest among them, carrying two. They stopped at the door, the wedge thankfully still in place, a sign they had not yet been found out.

Dan went in first, placing the bag down and stationing himself behind a ride-on lawnmower, handgun at the ready. One by one, the rest of the team entered the storage area until all five of them were safely inside. After Polaris checked the bags, Dan gave the go ahead, and the team transported the explosives to the closet. The secret door was opened once more, and the Liberation Front began the trek to the Titan Processing Plant.

The going was slow due to the explosives, but in about fifteen minutes, they reached the facility. The others decreased their pace, taking in the magnitude of the chamber in wonder. Upon seeing the tanks, Nelson uttered a long string of obscenities, which echoed slightly in the stone hall.

"Dude, these things are incredible!" declared Spock in amazement.

"We don't have time to stop and stare, unfortunately," said Dan. "Come on."

The Watchdog was there waiting for them, and was pleased to see his crewmates return. He approached the group as they came to rest their bags between the second and third incubation tanks on the left. Polaris then started to wander off, and when she gasped aloud, the rest came to her side. Shock and disgust filled the air at the sight of Brian's disfigured body, which hadn't moved since Dan had left it there.

"What happened to the critter?" asked the Druid.

"Let's just say securing this place was harder than we thought it would be," replied Dan, giving Gary a knowing glance. "I'll tell you guys about it later. We can't waste any more time. Let's get these babies up and running."

There were twelve tanks in all, but only six bombs; each operative therefore placed one bag between every tank in order to maximize their explosive yield. Once the charges were in place, Polaris went to work, removing the components from the bags and assembling them before connecting a few colour-coded wires to the digital timer. Since she was the only one among them qualified to handle the explosives, the others were left with nothing to do. They watched on, intrigued, while Dan paced in thought.

As Polaris began work on the second set of charges, the Watchdog came to meet him and pulled him aside.

"Listen," said Gary. "I'm not too keen on standing around and doing nothing while she does all the work. We should make good use of our time."

"What are you suggesting?" asked Dan.

"We should split into two groups," proposed the Watchdog. "Half of us will stay down here to assist in the bomb-making, while the other half goes back to the storage area to hold the exit for the bomb-makers once they join the other group upstairs."

"Good idea," said Dan after some thought. "Yeah, alright, we'll do that."

While Polaris connected the second bomb to its corresponding timer, Dan called the rest into caucus.

"Here's the deal," he began. "Since setting up the explosives is going to take some time, we're going to be splitting into two groups. Spock, you stay here with Polaris and give her a hand in activating the charges. The rest of us will head upstairs and secure the exit. When you two are done, we'll join up and escape through the riverside path before the whole place comes crumbling down."

"Wouldn't it be better if we split in threes?" asked Gary.

"We'll need more muscle upstairs in case something unexpected happens," said Dan.

Watchdog appeared ready to contest the decision, but he then receded. Dan turned to Polaris.

"When you've set them all up, give us a holler through the transceiver," said Dan.

"Gotcha. Spock and I will assemble the rest and set the timers for ten minutes. Won't we, Spock?"

"Yes, ma'am!" said Spock, saluting. "We'll be with you guys shortly."

"Good," said Dan. "Let's get moving."

With the Watchdog at the head, the four operatives made for the entrance and initiated the ascent to the surface. In stealth they went, peering around corridors and keeping close to the walls. Dan was at the rear, looking behind from time to time and scanning the tangent sewer tunnels for any questionable details. Their trek was uneventful, though (apart from a passing rat that made all but the Watchdog jolt), and they reached the janitorial closet without any further hindrance.

The storage area was once again devoid of shifters, so the group crept up to the back door.

"Okay," started Dan in a low voice. "Nelson, go outside and hide somewhere to keep an eye on the exit. The rest of us will cover this area."

The Druid complied, making for the door.

"What in the hell?" said Nelson suddenly, twisting the knob repeatedly.

"Don't tell me it's _locked_!" said Dan in exasperation.

"No, no, it's sumthin' else," explained the Druid. "It's like there's sumthin' _blocking_ it."

The Druid shoved against the door, but it wouldn't budge; Keane tried as well, only to confirm the Druid's hypothesis.

"What could possibly cause the door to jam like that?" wondered Keane.

"The only thing big enough to block that door," said Dan, speaking in increasing concern, "would be the dumpster outside."

At that moment, they all grasped the context of the situation, with Gary voicing the realization aloud.

"They know we're here!"

They immediately tensed and lowered themselves, staring around in shared paranoia.

"Damn it," hushed Enigma. "Now what do we do?"

"The only way left now is the front entrance," said Dan after some reflection. "They must have closed off our exit to try and smoke us out by the front. I don't like it, but we don't have much of a choice."

Dan was breaking into a cold sweat. Somewhere along the line, one of them screwed up, or they had underestimated their adversary. He was clenching his jaw in frantic thought when the Watchdog spoke.

"I think we should attempt a pre-emptive strike," he began. "If they know we're here, they're probably waiting for us already. The way I see it, they're going to spot us the moment we move towards the entrance anyway, so we might as well sneak our way up there and use the element of surprise to take out as many of them as we can while we're at it. We'd only have to fend them off long enough so that the others downstairs rejoin with us."

"I don't know," said Dan, holding his chin. "Maybe we should wait for Spock and Polaris first before going ahead. I mean, we'd have a bigger advantage if we were six instead of four."

"That won't do us any good," argued the Watchdog. "If we sit here and wait, by the time they come to the surface, the timers on the bombs would have already counted down several minutes, and the firefight might take longer than we can spare. If we want to get out of here before the charges detonate, we'll have to clear them out as fast as we can."

The prospect was far from enticing, and Dan attempted to find alternative solutions to the dilemma, but in the end, he was forced to agree with Gary's plan. Their options were too limited to try anything else; and the act of killing Brian still left a bitter aftertaste. But he figured it was inevitable that many more Shapeshifters would have to if they were to succeed, so he prepared himself for the worst.

At that moment, a voice called in through his transceiver.

"_Crow! Crow! Do your copy?_"

It was Polaris.

"_Loud and clear_," responded Dan. "_What's the situation? Over._"

"_The bombs are all set,_" she announced. "_I'm going to initiate the timers now. Over._"

"_Listen,_ _there's been a slight change of plans,_" explained Dan. "_The back door's been blocked, so we're going to have to go out by the front and probably fight the Shapeshifters. Get up here as fast as you can, 'cause we'll be needing all the firepower we can muster. Over._"

There was a slight pause on the other end before a solemn Becca replied.

"_Understood. Over."_

The four of them prepared their respective weapons.

"We should probably pan out and take them out from various angles so that they can't react as fast," suggested Keane.

"That's probably exactly what they want," said Watchdog. "We need to stick close so that we don't get separated in the event that they're waiting for us."

"I agree," said Dan. "It'll be easier for them to take us out if we're scattered across the store."

Polaris buzzed in once again.

"_Crow, I've initiated the timers. Repeat, the timers are counting down. Spock and I are coming up now. Over and out._"

The countdown began; they could delay no longer.

"I'll lead the way," offered the Watchdog.

"Alright," said Dan. "Move out."

The quartet proceeded as they did earlier, with the Watchdog at the head, followed by Enigma, the Druid, and Crow in the back. They followed Gary through the inventory area, then into the rear of the store's public area. They ventured into the central aisles, keeping a low profile. He could hear the Shapeshifters talk in low voices in the distance; while they might know that intruders are in their midst, they seemed oblivious that the humans were already onto them. Dan's pulse accelerated. As they neared the edge of the aisle, he thought to himself that they might actually have a chance.

His transceiver suddenly kicked in from inside his coat pocket. He stopped to take the call while the others continued to advance.

"_Spock to Crow! Spock to Crow!_"

Spock's voice was feverish in its urgency.

"_What is it? Over._"

There was a pause on the other end before Spock relayed his message.

"_We found the Watchdog. He...he's dead._"

Dan's mind went blank. Then, a glacial chill ran down his spine as everything started to fall into place, a single, barely coherent thought coming to the forefront of his mind, drowning out all others.

_...No..._

He looked back to his team mates. Watchdog was peering around the corner, kneeling beside the aisle, with Enigma and the Druid close by.

"_Get out of there, Crow!_" yelled Spock. "_Do you hear me? You need to get out of there NOW!_"

Dan was stricken, not yet grasping the severity of the situation in full; it was only when the Watchdog readied himself and his comrades when Dan regained control.

"Ready?" whispered the Watchdog. "Now!"

He ran headlong into the open, handgun brandished; but instead of turning to shoot as Enigma and the Druid did, the Watchdog simply continued to run, dropping his weapon, hands in the air as a sign not to shoot him, fleeing outside of the range of the Shapeshifters who were waiting for them.

"Wait!" cried Dan. "It's a trap!"

Keane and Nelson, distracted by the Watchdog's irrational behaviour, saw the Shapeshifters rising from behind the check-out counters only too late. They fired almost as soon as the two emerged, missing a ducking Druid and hitting Enigma in the right shoulder, who yelled aloud in pain. The Watchdog joined his brethren behind the counters, aiming his weapon at those he had just duped.

Seeing his ally fall, the Druid let out a furious war cry. He aimed his rifle and began to fire, causing the three Shapeshifters to duck as the bullets tore holes through the cash register and the wall behind them. As he did so, Crow came to Enigma's aid, who fell to the ground upon being shot. The Shapeshifters began shooting back, however, and the Druid tried to hold them off with his rifle while the three Liberation Front agents retreated to the safety of the aisles.

"What the hell was that?" yelled Enigma, holding his shoulder.

"It's Gary," said Dan. "He's been dead this whole time. A Shapeshifter must have taken his identity while I was out fetching you guys at the river. He's been fooling us this entire time."

Anger, frustration, grief, despair; so many emotions and thoughts raced through Dan's being as he knelt as Enigma's side. But of all the states of mind he currently entertained, that of crippling guilt became the predominant one.

Gunshots continued to resound, Druid firing to try and pin the Shapeshifters in one place. Soon, however, Druid was soon forced to reload, which he attempted to do as fast as he could.

"Get 'em!" said one of the Shapeshifters, seeing their targets ceasefire.

Hearing this, Crow of the Liberation Front rose to his feet, and with a fierce cry, emerged from the aisle, unloading leaded vengeance upon those that took the life of his ally. The four Hybrids were caught off guard by the sudden attack; three returned to the cover of the check-out counters, while the one in the guise of Gary Saunders fled down the farthest aisle. Dan dove behind stacks of sand and gravel bags, landing hard on his shoulder.

_I should have known._

"Nelson!" said Dan. "There's one that went in the aisles!"

The Druid nodded. He looked down to Enigma, who gritted his teeth as he examined his wound.

"You alright?" asked the Druid, helping him to his feet after terminating his reload sequence.

"They got my good arm," said Keane. "I think I'll manage, though."

"Don't get dead, kid!" counselled the Druid, patting Enigma on his good shoulder and cocking his rifle before setting off after the stray shifter.

Crow and Enigma continued to hold their positions opposite the check-out counter. Enigma, though his aim was sloppy from having to use his opposite hand, managed to shoot one on the hand; the shifter screamed, looking at the hole in his palm, leaking mercury. Bullets grazed the bags behind which Dan knelt behind, sand and gravel drooling out of the holes. In a short time, the shootout veered to stalemate, bullets being exchanged pointlessly in the air with neither side gaining any significant advantages.

"Cover me!" said Enigma.

Crow fired, keeping the Shapeshifters at bay while Enigma ran to his partner's side, sliding the last few feet across the tile floor with great effort.

"If we keep this up, we'll be running out of ammunition in no time," said Keane. "We have to get closer to them somehow."

"Right," acknowledged Dan. "But how?"

No sooner did he finish his sentence that the Shapeshifters broke their static formation. One escaped into the aisles, and the other two began hopping over the counters, trying to bridge the distance between themselves and their flesh-and-blood opponents.

"They're trying to corner us!" said Enigma.

Then, to their joint surprise, one of the Shapeshifters performed a superhuman leap all the way to their cover behind the stacks of gravel and sand. Dan moved out of the way, but Enigma chose to aim his gun high as the Hybrid came down in a display of fearlessness, intent on dealing a mid-air blow; this proved fruitless, for the Shapeshifter landed on him before he could get a clear shot.

"Isaac!" cried Dan.

He was poised to come to the rescue of his friend, but the second Hybrid was closing in on him. Seeing this, Dan ran for the nearest aisle just as it opened fire on him, missing him by a hair's width.

_This is all my fault._

Meanwhile, the Druid was on the prowl, looking left and right as he traversed the aisles of the store. He saw the Watchdog shifter and fired, missing as the Hybrid ran the other way. They pursued each other in a game of cat and mouse, one firing, the other soon afterwards, a dance of gunpowder and predatory instinct being lead along the rows and columns of the store's wares. The Druid cut across, following the sound of footsteps. He came to the wall at aisle's end before turning to see the faux-Watchdog. Seeing the human, the Hybrid took an assortment of items off the racks and chucked them at his assailant, distracting him long enough to flee down the corridor.

"Hold still, will ya?" yelled the Druid in frustration after missing his shot.

He ran after him, following the shifter's movement along a parallel aisle in hot pursuit. Left, right, down an aisle, up another; it was just like hunting game back home, senses alert, searching for clues. Turning, he found the faux-Watchdog, peering around an aisle. Seizing the opportunity, the Druid emerged and stuck the barrel of his rifle to his back.

"Game over," said the Druid.

He pulled the trigger.

Click.

The Shapeshifter slowly turned as the Druid pulled again, and again, evidently displeased to run out of bullets at the most inopportune moment possible. Both their eyes widened as they both saw the balance shift in the blink of an eye. The Shapeshifter outstretched his arm, but the Druid stepped in struck a blow with the butt of his rifle, causing the Hybrid to stumble. Nelson then started to run down the corridor when the Hybrid caught himself. When another Shapeshifter surged from one of the aisles to his left in ambush, he simply shoved it aside as absent-mindedly as one would swat a fly, before turning abruptly in an effort to shake off both of them.

In the front of the store, Enigma and the leaping Shapeshifter had rose to their feet following the tumbling and rolling on the floor that resulted from their collision. When they did, they drew their guns at each other in a flash. A tense silence followed, gazes interlocked; realizing the futility of their little Mexican standoff, they fell back to the nearest cover they could find.

_ I failed him. I failed all of them._

Sprinting through the aisles and shooting behind him to keep his pursuer at bay, Dan could see Druid and Enigma through the shelves of the aisles, defending themselves against their respective adversaries. Dan stopped at the entrance to the surplus repository to reload; only one clip remained. He would soon run out completely, and when he did, the only thing that would prevent him from being at their total mercy would be how fast his legs could carry him, and they too would wear out eventually. The Shapeshifters have managed to splinter the Liberation Front so that they could pick them off one by one, just as he had feared. Things looked grim for them; he was beginning to realize that he bit off more than he could chew when he thought he could form an entire resistance movement. The Shapeshifter appeared around the corner; Dan shot twice, grazing the shifter's shoulder on his second try, and Dan ran for it, breathing hard.

..._I'm sorry._

"Set course for the entrance, Mister Spock!"

A shopping cart came careening from the equipment storage area in the back of the store, taking a sharp turn to the left, teetering dangerously on its side as it did.

"Out of the way, Crow!" yelled Polaris, crouched inside the cart.

Dan ducked and rolled out of the way into an adjoining aisle at the last possible moment, and the cart Spock was pushing wheeled past in a blur. The Shapeshifter that was chasing Dan came to a halt, taken aback at the sight of the thing he least expected to encounter. Polaris, armed with two pistols, unloaded her fire into the Hybrid, who fell as bullets pierced his collarbone and right flank. Spock placed the soles of his shoes on the wheels as improvised brakes, and the pair stopped in the central corridor. Spock aligned himself parallel to the passage.

"Maximum Warp!" ordered Rebecca Stone. "Engage!"

Spock complied, pushing the cart down the avenue and gaining momentum as he did. Polaris held out her arms on either side of her, and proceeded to shoot at every Shapeshifter they passed by as they appeared down the aisles that surrounded her. They soon came to the front of the store, and Polaris shot the Hybrid that was locked in a fierce firefight with Enigma, delivering a killing blow. Spock braked once again, and Polaris blew the smoke from the barrel of her handguns before hopping out the cart to meet Enigma.

With most of the Shapeshifters temporarily incapacitated, Crow and the Druid were able to take advantage of this momentary respite to rejoin their comrades at the front end of the store. The six of them then took cover behind the counters and the stacks of supplies as the Shapeshifters regained their composure and hastened to the Liberation Front's current position.

Becca hopped over a counter and came to Dan's side.

"You guys seemed in quite the pinch there," she began. "Good thing you have a girl hanging around to save your ass."

"What took you so long to get here?" yelled Dan, letting loose a few rounds.

"After you called, I realized that I forgot my handgun at the Titan site, so after we found Gary..."

She paused, still distressed at the memory of the body that was carried into the sewer tunnels, lying limp, with three puncture wounds embedded in the soft palate.

"...after we found him, we hurried back there to retrieve it, since you said there would probably be a firefight, but there was another Shapeshifter down there. I guess he must have made his way down there through some other passage, 'cause by the time we got back, it had already disabled two of the bombs. But we were able to take it out and reactivate the charges."

Dan saw the gash on her cheek, which a bullet left when it grazed her face.

"It's a good thing you guys went back, then," acknowledged Dan. "That Shapeshifter would have disabled all of them at this point. Crap, the bombs! How much time do we have?"

"I don't know," she said, "but this place isn't going to stand much longer! We need to get out, ASAP!"

In the throes of their skirmish, Dan had almost forgotten that their battlefield was scheduled to implode. His sense of impending danger went on overdrive.

"We need to distract them somehow," said Dan, "or they'll just follow us out the door.

Becca's eyes lit up.

"Right! I almost forgot!"

Polaris placed her backpack to her side and removed a glass jug from within. It held an explosive core, and the rest of the space was filled with bits of sharp metal.

"What the hell is that?" asked Dan.

"I made a nail bomb in case I needed a little pick-me-up," she explained with a smirk.

"Everyone, pull back!" rallied Dan as she lit the fuse with a match.

The others looked over to see Becca's contraption, and instantly clued in on its nature. They began to move for the door in unison while Polaris took the device and rolled it along the floor like a bowling ball. One of the Shapeshifters noticed the jar out the corner of his eye. At first he was curious, but when he saw the humans making for the exit, he figured out what it was, and was very afraid.

"They've got a bomb!" he warned his fellow Hybrids. "Run!"

The three that were left ran to the back of the store, seeking to escape; but the jar continued to roll down the aisle, following them to their hiding spot.

Out front, the Druid held the door for the rest of the Liberation Front, ordering them along.

"Move! Move! Move!"

They broke out into the refreshing embrace of night. They barely made it a few feet when they heard a loud, muffled clang resound from inside the Rickman facility, coupled with faint, distant screams.

"Come on!" said Enigma, cradling his right arm. "We have to get out of here!"

Exhausted, breathless, the team ran with all the strength they had left down Pleasant Street. Then, suddenly, a great tremor shook their feet. Seconds later, an enormous fireball welled up from where the facility once stood in a monstrous explosion, knocking them all to their feet. The shockwave sent Dan into a daze. When his faculties started to return, he looked back at the orange maelstrom; what remained of the establishment imploded into the ground, along with some of the street before it. The team stood in the middle of the road, staring at the column of black smoke that arose, the yellow-orange light of the raging fires beneath dancing on its rippling form.

"Hey, did you guys hear that?" asked Spock, panting. "I could have sworn I heard a whale or something."

"Who cares?" shouted the Druid. "We need to keep moving!"

Dan complied, standing upright with some difficulty. And there he was, standing some way down the road, peering at him through those bizarre, compact set of binoculars.

The Man in Black.

"It's him!" shouted Dan.

Once again, the figure seemed vexed to have been spotted, replacing the specs in his suit pocket. Without warning, Dan immediately chased after him, all of his exhaustion and soreness dissolving into thin air.

"Crow!" said Polaris. "Where do you think you're going?"

He paid no mind to their cries, all of his willpower focused into apprehending the Man in Black. The man retreated down the nearest alleyway, and seconds later, Dan entered the same way. He turned the next corner, which lead to a dead end. The man stopped in his tracks, then turned to look at Dan, seeming as though he honestly wasn't expecting to be caught.

"Who are you?" asked Dan.

The Man in Black said nothing.

"What are you doing here?" continued Dan. "Why the hell do you keep on following me? Answer me!"

The man tilted his head, and though his face was stone in expression, Dan could have sworn that that he could detect a mixture of perplexity and bemusement in those omniscient eyes and naked brows; but all trace of it was lost when the Man in Black proceeded to reply in a monotonous voice.

"It is not _you_ that I am interested in," he said.

He appeared to have regretted to have said those words even before he finished his sentence. He averted his gaze for a moment, staring obliquely to the floor as though he was calculating something before looking back at Dan.

"I have said too much," said the man. "I am not supposed to get involved."

"Wait, what?" asked Dan, terribly confused. "What are you talking about? Get involved in _what_?"

Instead of answering Dan's queries, the Man in Black drew a pistol from inside his suit and pointed it directly at his inquisitor. Before Dan could react, the Man in Black pulled the trigger. An electronic whirlwind of a noise reverberated in the small enclosure, though no bullet was shot. Dan's entire body felt heavy all of a sudden, and he dropped to his knees. He tried to remain conscious, fighting against the growing numbness in his mind, but he soon gave in, his tired body unable to resist any longer. His vision blurred, and the suited man before him became a hazy silhouette, continuing to stand idle at the end of the alley. He fell to his side, the world turning blacker than the night sky above him as he passed out, the still image of the Man in Black fading away entirely.

And Crow of the Liberation Front knew no more.


	18. Chapter 17: FarBeyondYourUnderstanding

Chapter 17: Far Beyond Your Understanding

It was very cold outside. Luckily for him, he was insensitive to it.

It was mid-January, and Boston was blanketed in white. September traversed the suburban area en route to his next Event, which the mission outline on his MultiCell delineated as a Minor one. Three weeks have passed since the Council meeting with the Overseer, in which the existence of the Guardians was made known to the League of the Witnesses. Since that time, things have more or less returned to normal. He would observe Events to their specified outcome, and when he wasn't doing so, he would indulge his gustatory cravings or simply watch things from afar, sometimes with the company of his colleagues, but most of the time in solitude. The only thing that has changed was the instatement of a new Protocol. By the Gemini Protocol, so the Overseer had named it, the Witnesses were instructed to eliminate any Guardian that crossed their paths.

So far, he had encountered none.

September turned onto the next street. The Witnesses had an aversion for all that was unexpected and unforeseen; and yet, he could not find comfort in his habitual routine now that it had returned. The thought that the Guardians were out there, somewhere, conspiring against him and his colleagues preoccupied his thoughts. He didn't like what the Gemini Protocol required of him. If the Guardians were capable of many of the things he was, how was he to fight them? He didn't know, but he didn't think his newly upgraded Pulse Pistol model would be enough.

It was a gradual process, but September thought he began to understand why the Overseer had told them nothing of these matters from the onset. After all, the Overseer was always right, and he was also just, and wise as well. But despite this, and himself, he began to question the absolute, unwavering trust he had held in Mercedony for thousands of years, and he could not help but wonder.

What else was the Overseer hiding from them?

September stopped in his tracks. There was a strange presence in the air all of a sudden. Could it be one of _them_? With the presence growing stronger, September readied himself to draw his pistol, preparing for the worse.

The car turned the corner, and September localized the source of the disturbance in the back seat. He was surprised to see a young boy seated there. He wore a baseball cap, but the Witness could tell that he was bald, and the boy's naked brows and pale skin were plain enough to see. But he was even more taken aback when the child began to speak to him from the moving car. The child spoke not with words, but with broad intentions, projected into space and travelling through the telepathic bridge that he had initiated between himself and the Witness.

_Hello._

_ Hello._

_ Who?_

_ I am Mister Reed. What is your name, child?_

_ Name? No name. What is Wall?_

_ What wall?_

_ I see Wall. You not see Wall?_

_ I do not see it. Where is this wall of which you speak?_

_ I want that place again. You take me?_

_ Take you where?_

_ Home._

The wordless conversation spanned all but a few seconds. Then, once the car began to distance itself from the Witness, the bridge weakened until it faded altogether, though the child continued to stare at him from the back despite this. September lingered on the sidewalk for a moment before resuming his path when the vehicle was farther down the street and the presence in the air had diminished entirely.

Yet another mystery had shown itself. When would it stop?

He had no doubt that the Overseer knew who the child was. After his impending Minor Event, he would report the incident to the Arbiter, who would then relay the development to the Overseer, as was protocol for any unusual sighting. From there, nothing was certain.

Doppelgangers, Pacts, and Invisible Walls.

Whatever the bigger picture was, September had the sense that it was far beyond his understanding.

* * *

><p>No birds were chirping.<p>

No dogs were barking.

No children were laughing, no babies were crying, no cars drove past.

And the wind was rarer than Astatine.

Following the explosion of the Chernobyl Nuclear Power Plant in 1986, the city of Pripyat had slowly decayed into a shell of its former self, becoming one of the more infamous ghost towns of the world. There was still some activity in the operational section of the Plant, and guided tours were offered to tourists around the Safe Zones, but the majority of the city was barren, lifeless.

The radioactivity had dropped by vast amounts over the twenty years since the accident, and in most parts of the city, the radiation levels had fallen below the threshold of fatality to human life; however, there were still some areas where all access was prohibited, as the radiation had not yet decreased to safe ranges, so no one dared entered the aptly-named Restricted Zones.

That is, all but seven.

Their current headquarters was an abandoned apartment complex in one of these Restricted Zones. The windows were blown out, the floor riddled with dust and debris, and the series of interconnected chambers that used to be separate apartments were unlit, save by the intermittent rays of light that seeped in through holes or cracks in the walls and windows or the small television set playing Tom and Jerry cartoons in one of the rooms on the fifth floor.

"Here, try this."

One of the three individuals seated in the center of the room exhaled a stream of smoke before passing the hose of the device to his comrade, who also drew a long breath from it.

"How is it?" asked one.

"It is... peculiar," said another. "What is this device, exactly?"

"The vendor said to me that it is known as a _hookah_," replied the first one.

They proceeded to repeat the strange word multiple times, analyzing the way it sounded and how it rolled off their tongues, before continuing to pass the pipe around the circle and observing how the smoke affected their bodies and minds.

They appeared as bald men, devoid of eyebrows. They wore sleek suits under their black longcoats. Each of these men – though many would say that to call them _human_ would be a misnomer – have marked and adorned their bodies in some fashion as a representation of their individuality, either through tattoos or piercings or jewellery or other small details.

There were three other such individuals in the room. The fourth and fifth were playing cards, while the sixth was bent toward the television, eating jalapeno peppers as he spoke to the screen, giving the cat advice on how to capture the mouse and critiquing him when the feline rejected his propositions in favour of absurd and whimsical, though terribly inefficient strategies.

A few days ago, the seven of them were scattered around the globe, but they had since regrouped at their current decrepit abode. They have been passing the time with a variety of activities all morning, lying in wait for their seventh and final comrade.

This seventh individual arrived around noon. He appeared on the fifth storey without a noise, emerging upward through the floor as though a ghost before being pulled back down by gravity, landing on the solid floor beneath him. Unlike his comrades, this seventh man wore a trench-coat of leather, with silver buckles strapping it tightly on his torso. The others, noticing him, abandoned their activities and came to meet with him.

"Agent Sunday," said one of the Guardians.

The Guardians placed their right fists to their left shoulders in salute to the Warden, the Caretaker's second-in-command.

"Greetings, my brothers," said Sunday. "Come, there is much to discuss."

They gathered around a table, upon which Sunday placed the briefcase he was carrying.

"Agent Wednesday," said Sunday. "How was the assignment in Germany?"

"It was... a failure," explained Wednesday, looking down. "It turned out that the Witnesses were also interested in this series of events. I was able to alter the course of the demonstration so that Klein survived, and I was also able to alert Alfred Hoffman of the assassin they sent to kill Klein. However, they still managed to prevent the NSA from apprehending the Old World Society and Apotheosis."

Wednesday stared at the floor, shamed.

"No need to punish yourself unnecessarily, Wednesday," said Sunday. "This is not the first time the Witnesses have foiled us. Besides, the assignment was of minimal importance to the Will of our Father."

"Still, the Witnesses are always causing us trouble," noted Friday bitterly.

"Fear not, Friday," said Sunday. "We will soon have the advantage."

He opened the briefcase, revealing seven small, round objects. The Warden passed one to each of the other Guardians, before taking the last for himself. The Guardians began analyzing the devices, observing them both up close and from afar, shaking them and rotating them around.

"What are these?" asked one of them, wearing mismatched coloured lenses and nails painted in a varied palette.

"These, Agent Tuesday, are specialized compasses the Caretaker has created for us," explained Sunday. "Using the residual frequency Agent Thursday retrieved from John Mosley's body, they have been designed to hone in on the Beacon's own resonant frequency. So now, instead of waiting for the Overseer to send it out in another eleven years, we can simply follow its trail and find out where he keeps it hidden."

Now knowing what the devices where, the Guardians held them properly, admiring their design.

"Listen carefully, my brothers," continued Sunday. "Before us lies the greatest challenge we have ever faced. With these compasses, locating the Beacon should be simple, but retrieving it for ourselves will be no easy task. The Overseer and his Witnesses will no doubt attempt to protect it from us to the maximum of their abilities. Confrontation is inevitable."

The Guardians looked at each other uneasily.

"But Sunday, how are we to oppose them?" asked Agent Monday, eyes concealed in aviators. "They were created from the Beacon. They are stronger than we are, and greater in number."

The Guardians have always harboured some fear and dislike for the Witnesses, who, unlike them, were born of a perfect source. From time to time, during their missions, they would spot one or two in the distance, and would conceal themselves from the view of the men in the suits and fedoras, not wanting to be seen; and even if they desired to confront them, the Law of Gold forbade it.

"But do they possess our resolve?" asked Sunday. "Or our discipline? Or the strength of our unity? We may be outnumbered and outmatched, but so long as we remain together, _we_ are _invincible_."

The Guardians stood taller, knowing their brother's words to be true.

"Thursday," started Tuesday, "did you not come face to face with some Witnesses during the Beacon's last surfacing period?"

They all turned to Agent Thursday, eager to hear what he had to say.

"...Yes," he began. "I did."

"Well, what were they like?" asked Saturday.

"They are similar to us in some ways," began Thursday. "And in other ways, they are different. I saw their faces; they did not seem so fearsome up close. We might possibly be able to stand our ground against them."

"In that case," said the Warden, "we should begin as soon as possible. As it stands, we can only spare three agents for this mission, as there must always be Guardians to carry out the Will of our Father at any given time. Agents Thursday, Wednesday, and Saturday; the Caretaker suspects that the Beacon was sent from Australasia, so you will begin your search in Coagula. It will take a few weeks to free your schedules, so you will tend to your regular duties for the time being. The rest will continue to carry out the Will. However, if you should see that your compasses detect the Beacon's signature, you have orders to abandon your mission and pursue its course to its end. Furthermore, the Caretaker has instated the Law of Aether and suspended the Law of Gold from this point forward. Still, we should refrain from recklessly engaging them. I suggest you seek alternative courses of action first in the event you encounter one of the Witnesses."

"And if we find none?" asked Monday.

"Then we _strike_."

The Guardians nodded. All seven of them then made their way to the nearest windows and, with great strength and speed, shot into the air like bullets from the apartment building, landing on the ground below or on other structures several meters away. They set out from Voskresenie in various directions, racing and leaping and Tunnelling their way out of the city. Their plans were slowly coming to fruition, and soon, they would stop the Overseer and his Witnesses from destroying both worlds once and for all. They already possessed the Alkahest; the apprehension of the Beacon was now only a matter of time.

For they were agents of the Brotherhood of the Guardians, and for the last several millennia they have been watching over all things, laying the foundations for the river of Time and guiding entire Histories on the path they were meant to travel.

As one, they could not fail.

* * *

><p><em>AN: Well, that's it for The Deceived. _

_Just so it's clear, the child September saw was the same one from 1.15 (September's scene is the end scene of 1.15). And I know there is a lot of new terminology thrown around in the Guardian half of the chapter, which may have made things confusing, but thankfully, both the Guardians and the Child will be getting POV chapters in PTS III. Hooray!_

_Speaking of PTS III, this revision of PTS I-II has sidetracked me a bit, but I only have a few chapters left to write for it. I can't make any promises, but it should be completed in the very near future._

_So hang tight in the meantime. And again, feedback is always appreciated. Until next time, then._

_Love and Light, folks! ;)_


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